Potter's Resistance 1: Breaking Ties
by IP82
Summary: PostOotP. Harry escapes Private Drive and goes out to learn about the world and magic on his own. Hunted by all sides of the war, he must rely on his newfound wit and cunning to survive. Independent!Harry.
1. Sound the alarms

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**Potter's Resistance 1: Breaking Ties **

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**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic, and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to Harry Potter.

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**Start of the story notices  
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**o - Summary **

Post-OotP. Harry escapes Privet Drive and goes off to learn about the world on his own. Hunted by all sides of the war, he must rely on his wit and cunning to survive. Independent!Harry.

**o - Pairings **

None planned for now. As for future prospects, only two things are certain: no H/Hr, no H/G and NO slash.

**o - Canon **

This starts after Book 5, but will also contain spoilers from Book 6. Still, only books 1 to 5 shall be considered as canon. There will be no spoilers from other HP publications (' Quidditch through the ages', etc.), HP sites or interviews with JKR.

**o - Rating **

**Rated** - **R **- Swearing and violence. No explicit sex scenes.

**o - Grammar warning **

English is not my native tongue, so there will probably be some grammatical errors.

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**Chapter 1: Sound the alarms  
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Remus Lupin was standing under a tree in the Surrey park, watching over dishevelled person sitting on one of the few undamaged swings. His tall but skinny frame was hidden behind overlarge, ragged clothes. His messy black hair completely covered famous bolt-shaped scar on his forehead. Remus amusedly noticed that only his shoes were new and different than the rest of his appearance.

_Probably trying to buy him off, muggle bastards_, he growled.

Remus was hidden under an invisibility cloak, but he doubted his charge would have noticed his presence even if he weren't. His emerald eyes, that used to be vibrant and mischievous, were now dull and empty, almost stupid, staring at nothing.

_Harry, Harry, what are you doing with yourself? We are all mourning, but you shouldn't give up living your life in the process. Sirius would never want that. _

Remus sighed. Several times he had argued with Albus about approaching Harry and helping him through his grief, but the Headmaster stayed adamant in his request to leave the boy alone for the rest of the summer. He even went as far to set up mail filters around the premises, ensuring total communications blackout.

"He has a lot on his mind right now," he would say. "He needs time and space to grieve away from the world that had caused him such duress."

_Bullshit_, Moony thought. _Harry needs friends and human contact right now and that is the exact thing that is being denied to him._

It was easy to memorize Harry's daily routine. He would spend exactly an hour each day trudging around the neighbourhood, lost in his thought. He would then disappear inside his room and nobody would see him again until tomorrow.

_Like a prisoner on a daily walk_, Remus growled. _They are probably locking him down for the rest of the day._

He suddenly realized that tomorrow was Harry's birthday.

_And Harry would spend it dragging himself around depressed_, he thought. _He won't even get any presents, with this mail blackout routine in place. _Remus clenched his fists in resolve. _Not if I can help it. _

Just when that decision hit him, Harry came out of his stupor and looked at his wristwatch. He yelped when he saw the time and hurried back towards Privet Drive. Moony followed him at brisk pace.

_It seems that Harry's happy hour is almost up_, he thought.

When they entered abandoned dark alley near the Privet Drive, Remus looked around and decided to make his move. _I'm sure Albus knows what he's doing, but enough is enough. Harry is the only Marauder child and it is my duty to protect him_, he affirmed. He pulled off his cloak and called out, "Harry!"

Harry just kept on walking, as if he hadn't even heard Remus yelling his name. Remus called him again and suddenly Harry stopped, as if just realizing something. He turned around and inspected the older man thoroughly. His brow furrowed, like he was in deep thought.

"Rebus?" he asked, uncertainly.

_Merlin, it hasn't been THAT long_, Remus thought.

"Remus," he corrected Harry. He took a deep breath and plunged forward. "Harry, how are you doing?"

Harry looked a bit miffed, but hurriedly answered, "I'm fine, everything's fine, no need to worry about anything. I just want to be left alone. To grieve. Yeah."

Remus' instincts were screaming at this reply and there was no way he would let this go. "Harry, are you sure? Are the muggles treating you well?"

Harry looked almost insulted by this. "Of course they are! They took me in, gave me shelter, clothed me, fed me. I am grateful for all they've done for me!" Taking a note of Lupin's wide-eyed look, Harry clamped his mouth shut, obviously realizing he had said more than he should have. "Err, look Reb... Remus, I really have to go, I have... chores to do, yeah. Well, see you around." He then glanced at his watch and quickly walked away, down the alley.

It took few seconds for Remus to realize that his charge had dismissed him. _Something is seriously wrong here_, he mused. _Harry must be more grief-stricken than we thought. _Remus ran after Harry and caught up with him near No.4 Privet Drive.

"Look, I know that his death must have hit you hard, but that's no reason to shut out people who care about you," Remus panted.

Harry glanced at the watch again, and distractedly said, "That's right... death, nasty business."

Remus tried again, "Sirius wouldn't want you to feel responsible for his death. He was a grown up man and his choices were his own."

"Yeah, I know, everyone make choices."

"Harry, it wasn't your fault!"

They were already at Privet Drive. Harry gave Remus perplexed look and said, "Why would it be?" He then went down the walkway towards the door.

Remus never felt so confused in his entire life. Whatever he expected when he confronted Harry, this certainly wasn't it. He tried to logically collect all the facts he had: _Strict daily regime... witch Harry obediently follows... Hardly remembers my name... Likes his relatives... No emotional reactions whatsoever... except when he thought he was going to be late... _

Suddenly, it all clicked together. Muggles didn't have magic but they had other mind conditioning techniques. He once saw a TV show about such techniques - sleep deprivation, combined with various hallucinogen drugs, combined with occasional beating...

_Fucking bastards brainwashed him!_, he mentally screamed.

His inner wolf growling with outrage, Remus pounced after Harry and caught his arm just when he was about to open the door.

"Harry, what have they done to you!?"

Harry looked at Remus confusedly. "Nothing, Rebus. Let me go now, I have..."

"Harry I'm not letting you go until we find out what those bastards did. Don't worry, I'm taking you with me to see Dumbledore, he'll find a way..."

As soon as he heard about leaving, Harry started struggling against the werewolf's grip. "No, let me go, you freak!"

"Harry, you don't know what you are talking about, let us help you..."

"Let me go, freak, I'm not coming with you..."

Suddenly, Harry's arm started inflating, surprising them both. On reflex Remus let it go, sending both him and the boy tumbling on the pavement. Remus watched in fascination as Harry's messy black hair turned into a short yellowish one, while his body inflated, snugly filling in his overgrown hand-me-downs.

"Oh, shit!" cursed Remus, his eyes bulging at the boy who moments ago looked like Harry Potter. He instantly activated the Order Of The Phoenix's communicator and sounded code red.

"Well, I guess the game is up, huh," said Dudley Dursley.

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Albus Dumbledore was sitting in his office, finding it strange that he didn't have anything to do.

At this time of year, he would normally be going through lists of at least marginally qualified Defence Against The Dark Arts instructors, trying to persuade another poor fool into taking the post. But this year, he seemed to have an abundance of professors at disposal. Not only did Alastor agreed to teach again, but the Ministry insisted on sending their own batch of auror instructors, in an effort to "prepare our youth for the struggle against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

_Well, students were always complaining about poor quality of DADA classes_. _Let's see how they handle a bunch of paranoid, hardened auror instructors putting them trough paces_, he snorted at the thought.

Dumbledore was interrupted from his thoughts when a code red alarm was sounded on his Order Of The Phoenix pendant. He briefly froze when he saw the location and then quickly checked newly repaired silver instruments on his desk. When he saw that no intruder alarms were sounded at No.4 Privet Drive, he sighed in relief.

It was instrumental for his plans that Harry stay isolated and safe at his relatives' house. With no one to talk to during the summer, he would close up and isolate himself from the rest of the world. Then Professor Dumbledore, the ever-gentle grandfather, would come in and rescue him from isolation and boredom. Harry would, naturally, at first be angry at him, but Albus would quickly appease him with a few carrots, such as private tutoring and training with the elite Order members. In his desire to get back into the thick of things, Harry would be quick to accept the offer, thus alienating himself even further from the rest of Hogwarts populace. The only exception would be his two friends, but Albus already had the two of them in his pocket. In time, Harry's brief spat whit Albus would be all but forgotten and he would have his weapon back under his control.

That's why it was necessary for Harry to stay safe during the summer. Albus knew that the Blood Wards would keep Riddle away from Surrey, even though their effect wasn't as strong as before Voldemort's rebirth. For protection against his minions, Albus had to rely on ordinary wards and the Order guards, all of which could be broken with enough effort.

If the Death Eaters, by some miracle, do manage to breach Privet Drive's defences, the Prophecy would probably protect Harry's bare life, but he would have to be relocated to another location before the time was right. Harry would undoubtedly be mad at Albus for leaving him at his relatives' place, even though he wasn't as safe there as he was led to believe. Even worse, upon relocation, Harry would be put in a position where he could interact and strengthen his ties with certain Order members, and especially one Remus Lupin. Dumbledore briefly shivered. Sirius Black had been bad enough. Now that he was finally gone, it would be disastrous for another rouge element to take his place.

Albus mentally shook himself. All that was irrelevant now, since the wards obviously weren't breached. It was probably just Harry venting some of his stress on his relatives, the little devil. Albus suddenly realized that this could even work to his advantage, especially if Harry would need another rescuing from Fudge.

_Some of my political influence when he needs it the most, followed by a few kind words and more apologies... Yes, that would help bridge the gap even faster_, he mused.

Still planning and scheming, Albus walked out of Hogwarts grounds and apparated to Privet Drive.

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What used to be a quiet living room of No.4 Privet Drive was now a scene of chaos. The Dursleys were sitting at the kitchen table and fearfully watching wizards and witches running around, as if they were some rare but dangerous species. Mad-Eye Moody was stalking around the house, inspecting every detail of it in a futile hope of finding some trace of their wayward charge. Nymphadora Tonks was pacing in front of the muggles muttering to herself, her hair flashing through all the colours of rainbow. Severus Snape was standing in a dark corner like a wrath, scowling at other occupants of the room. Remus Lupin was sitting in a couch, his greying hair in his hands, dejectedly answering occasional question of other occupants. This was the scene that Albus Dumbledore found when he entered the house.

He briefly inspected occupants, who were all looking at him expectantly. He surveyed the room again and then asked question that was on everyone's mind. "Where is Harry Potter?"

All the Order members started talking at the same time, throwing around accusations, excuses and theories. They were interrupted by a small voice from the table where the Dursleys were sitting. All the wizards shut up at once and whirled towards the cowed Muggles, glaring at them like a pack of wolves at prey. Albus walked forwards, Order members forming an eerie half-circle around their leader. He leaned forward, looking at the shivering Dursleys with hard eyes, and asked politely, "Excuse me?"

Dudley gathered all his courage and answered a bit louder. "Gone. He's gone. Been for a while."

The Order members started yapping again, but Albus stopped them with raised hand and then gracefully sat at the other side of table.

"What did you do to him?" he asked Petunia pointedly, his hard eyes and dangerous tone unmistakably demanding a prompt and truthful answer.

"Nothing, we did nothing!" yelled scared Petunia. "That little whelp left on his own!"

"Left on his own? How curious. I'm listening," Albus raised an eyebrow, his polite voice carrying a demanding undertone.

Petunia sat a little straighter and cleared her throat. She briefly looked like she was at one of her gossip parties, and not being interrogated by a bunch of very irritated wizards.

"Well, you see, as soon as we arrived from the station, back in June, he gathered all of us around, at this very table, and told us that he is leaving and never coming back."

"Like hell he isn't," muttered Snape, but shut up at Dumbledore's distracted hand gesture.

Petunia continued, "Well, that was perfectly fine with us. I mean, we never wanted him in the first place." She made a small dramatic pause and then leaned in conspiratorially. "But then, he demanded we help him trick the other fre... _magicians_ who might come looking for him once he's gone. He even claimed it was our _duty_ to help him out," she hissed in an outraged tone, as if talking of some horrifying crime.

"Preposterous," snapped Snape, unable to contain himself any longer. "That brat is getting more and more arrogant by the minute!"

"Exactly our reasoning, thank you very much," said Petunia, who was obviously in same mind with Snape concerning Harry. "I mean, we took him in when no one wanted him, gave him shelter under our roof, and food from our table... and after all that, that _ungrateful ruffian_ had the _audacity_ to actually _demand_..."

"What changed your mind, Petunia?" asked Albus politely.

Vernon forestalled her answer. "Well, see here, the boy _was_ always polite... for a freak, of course. And quiet too, when he wasn't having nightmares..."

"Yes, dear," Petunia caught on, "and he _did_ do a chore or two during summers..."

"And he never actually ate all that much, now that I think about it..."

"And he _is_ my flesh and blood; After all, it has to mean something..."

"3,000 pounds," blurted in Dudley. "Thousand quid each. Half now, half when we do our part." His parents gave him reprimanding looks, but didn't deny.

"Now, see here," Vernon blustered, "just to be clear, we took the money and did our part of the deal, fair and square. We'll answer your stupid questions, just because that brat advised us to do so, so we wouldn't have any more problems with you freaks... But we are not giving you back any money!"

"Please do calm yourself, Mr. Dursley, we are not interested in money," said Albus, although he was actually very interested in just when did Harry withdrew all that cash from his account. "Would you mind telling us what happened next?"

Petunia continued. "Well, after we made sure the money wasn't stolen, we asked what he would have us do. Then he gave us ten vials of some vile tonic, a little bag with hair of all things and a notebook."

"May we see them?" asked Albus.

Petunia stood up and retrieved a muggle notepad and a plain-looking white pouch. "Vials are in his old roo... I mean, cupboard under the stairs. Few days later, he sent us a package with another 50 vials, since we needed one per day."

Albus motioned for Snape, who immediately stalked down the corridor towards the cupboard. Mad-Eye inspected the pouch and growled out, "Hair. Potter's most likely."

Albus opened the notebook and gasped when he saw files of every Order member that Harry knew about. Each page had the member's photo, cut out from some larger photograph, his or hers name and some general info. Albus was amused by some of the facts Harry had fabricated, like "Has tendency to transform into a monster if he sees a combination of red and gold" for his description of Professor Snape. _Better keep this away from Severus_, thought Albus with a chuckle.

"Polyjuice, all of it," spat Snape as he strolled back from the corridor, levitating a pack of potion vials behind him. "The first batch is a fairly good student work, probably that Know-It-All Granger. Those that came by mail are commercial grade, medium quality. Bought in Knockturn alley, most likely."

"Damn!" Tonks blurted out what was on everyone's minds. _THE Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, saviour of the Wizarding World and all assorted hogwash, gallivanting around the Knockturn Alley? If the press gets a hold of this..._

Petunia cleared her throat and continued her story. "So, the boy gave us all those things and explained that Dudley is to learn everything from that notebook and impersonate him for an hour each day. Of course, I wouldn't let my Duddydums drink that vile freak concoction, with hair of all things, so he picked a single strand from Dudley's hair, put it in one of the vials and drank it."

"God damn freak business," grumbled Vernon, obviously remembering Harry transforming into a perfect copy of his own precious son before his very eyes.

"Yes dear, exactly," sniffed Petunia. "Anyway, since the brat unfortunately didn't drop dead or came down ill, we reluctantly agreed to honour our end of the agreement."

"And get the rest of the money," muttered Tonks.

"So," Petunia said forcefully, giving Tonks a sour look, "Vernon drove him back to London while he was still looking like Dudley. To that freak place, Cauldron something-or-other. And that's it," she said forcefully. Than her expression mellowed as she saw her son. "Poor Duddy-drums had to drink that stinky juice every day for a month, didn't you dear?" She was petting Dudley's pig-like head, while he was alternating between nodding eagerly and making hurt faces.

"Did he ask anything else of you?" asked Albus, years of experience preventing him from grimacing at display.

"Yes," said Petunia, "He had us sign a bunch of papers. Something like parental permissions for your freak kind."

Albus paled. 'Muggle guardian permits' were a series of permission slips, which would allow underage Muggleborns to take over variety of privileges and responsibilities from their appointed Magical guardians. And Harry had most likely taken them all, seeing as Albus had appointed himself for the job of Harry's magical advisor. With this move, Albus would lose much of his legal authority over Harry, like the privilege to screen his mail, oversee his finances and restrict his movement in magical enclaves. It wasn't exactly emancipation, but it was the closest thing Harry would get until he was 17.

At this point, Dudley was discretely prodding his mother with his elbow, which made her grimace in pain. Then she remembered something and said, "Oh yes, with that package delivery, he included a letter for you."

That got the attention of the Order members, who were leaning forward expectantly. Petunia walked out of the room and brought back a plain white envelope. She gave it to Albus, who was planning on reading it discretely and then giving the others a censured version if needed. But as soon as he opened the envelope, a red howler popped out and started speaking in a loud but calm voice.

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_I am Harry Potter. _

_Professor Dumbledore told me why I wasn't chosen for a perfect, along with a few other interesting things, in his office, right after he had portkeyed me back from the Ministry Of Magic. This confirms my identity. _

_I left Privet Drive on my own free will. I was not kidnapped, tricked or kicked out. _

_Dursleys are helping me on my request, this is all my idea. They are instructed to tell you all they know. DON'T BULLY THEM, even though they deserve it. _

_I will not be controlled any more. _

_Don't look for me, I am not coming back. _

_I will see you all at September 1st. _

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As soon as the speech ended, the howler burst out into flames. Reactions from the crowd were mixed. Albus was looking pensive, while casting various revealing charms at the envelope. Tonks was again flashing colours, looking apprehensive. Moody grunted approvingly at forwardness of the letter. Snape, on the other hand, was hardly containing himself from falling into another 'arrogant Potter' rant. Remus was just looking tired and worn-out, lost in his thoughts.

"Very well," Albus said abruptly, putting the envelope in his robes. "We shall now retrieve Harry and bring him back home." Dursleys started protesting but Albus gave them a hard stare and continued. "You will, of course, get the rest of your money when Harry returns. And then, we shall discuss further arrangements for the rest of the summer. Good day."

He and the rest of the Order briskly left the house, giving the cowed family dirty looks. As soon as they were outside, Dumbledore cast a temporary muggle-repellent charm and then a locator spell.

"You have the little bastard tagged?" asked Snape with an evil smirk.

Dumbledore nodded as he performed a more precise sweep. His wand glowed brightly and pointed right at Snape. He frowned and walked towards the confused potion master. Snape moved out of the way and Albus saw that his wand was in fact pointing at the rack of Polyjuice vials that Harry had sent few days after his escape. The boy had obviously somehow removed the tracking charm from himself and placed it on the rack with vials.

"Obnoxious little brat," Snape murmured irritably, but Remus and Mad-Eye looked quite pleased with Harry's ingenuity. Albus just shook his head, as if he would at his favourite puppy that had just peed outside of its appointed sandbox.

_This means that Harry somehow managed to bypass underage magic restrictions AND learn all about tracking charms in only a few days... or that he found some help_, he mused.

Albus waved his wand in a complicated circular pattern and pointed it at the rack. It was a spell that should reveal magical signature of a person that had handled the relocation of Harry's tracking charm.

Unlike fingertips, which stay the same for the lifetime, magical signatures are always gradually mutating, changing completely every several months. That's why any sort of signature database needs to be constantly updated with fresh readings. Since this is a rather cumbersome, not to mention irritating process, the Ministry was known to keep tabs only on the recently released or paroled criminals. Albus Dumbledore, on the other hand, kept up-to-date file of every person staying at Hogwarts during the school year. This wasn't exactly legal, but the opportunity was simply too good for his meddling nature not to take an advantage of it.

The gathering process was surprisingly simple, which made the whole scam so appealing in the first place. On various feasts during the year, the Headmaster would simply lace all the drinks in the Great Hall with a signature-reading potion, slaved to a charmed parchment in his office. After the feast, he would retreat to his office and neatly sort out the newly made readings into appropriate categories. He would also make a point of memorizing signatures of anyone whom he decided to keep a closer eye on. Harry's signature was, of course, one of them.

Albus was eagerly awaiting results from his signature-reading spell. He was only slightly disappointed when it didn't return Harry's signature. Still, he carefully analyzed a myriad of colours the spell had created and nodded in grim satisfaction. He was only an average signature analyzer, but even a novice forensic apprentice would easily recognize crude telltale traces of a cheap Occlusion amulet. He was somewhat relieved that it wasn't the model the Order members were issued with. It would be a disaster if Harry had received help from the Order itself. Something like that could easily create dissent within the group, maybe even splinter up a part of it. On the downside, simple Occluders such as this were commonly used by novice Death Eaters or Knockturn alley riff-raff.

Albus wasn't happy with this revelation. This could destroy 15 years of hard work he had spent carefully conditioning Harry into the pawn he needed.

Albus grudgingly admitted that at the root of this whole problem was his own screw-up with the last-year's experiment. It all started with Minerva's report about Harry's desire to become an Auror after graduation. Such position would have moved Harry too far away from Dumbledore's area of influence. In addition, Fudge was already planning to offer Harry a few boons, such as permission to do underage magic and preliminary Auror training, in exchange for his support. Albus just couldn't allow something like that to happen. That's why he decided to completely alienate Harry from the Ministry of Magic, effectively destroying any desire he might have to ever work for them.

At first, everything went by the plan. Using his patented subtle manipulations, Albus managed to convince Fudge that Harry was a serious political threat to his position. Fudge, idiot that he was, bit the hook, bait and sinker. He foolishly decided to attack Harry with everything he had, instead of approaching him with his offer. Albus intentionally pulled all of Harry's adult allies away from him, including himself, leaving the young man to deal on his own with kangaroo courts, press slandering and Umbridge's abuse. At the same time, he used Hermione to carefully push Harry towards forming his own DADA club. Harry would have hopefully grown to love teaching and gladly accepted the teaching post after his graduation. Instead of being the Ministry's auror, working Merlin knows where, Harry would have become the youngest DADA teacher Hogwarts had ever had, leaving him isolated most of the year under the Headmaster's authority. The plan was simply brilliant - Albus would have kept his pawn under control, permanently solved the problem of DADA teacher and maybe even saw a glimpse of this mysterious 'Power' he had been searching for so long.

But just as all the pieces were starting to fall together, the whole fiasco at the Department of Mysteries happened. In retrospect, Albus realized that he had put too much faith in Hermione's ability to keep Harry on a tight leash. She did try to stop him from going on with that whole rescue operation, but in the end, she only ended up getting dragged along with the rest of the kids. During the ensued chaos, what Albus feared the most finally happened - Harry learned about the existence of a prophecy regarding him and the Dark Lord. Even worse, Voldemort learned that Harry had no knowledge about any such prophecy, a possibility he had honestly completely overlooked.

All this unfortunate events forced Dumbledore to reveal to Harry the full contents of the prophecy, least Voldemort did it first in an attempt to create a rift between his two greatest adversaries. Albus made a big show of apologizing for keeping it from Harry for so long, but truthfully, he would have gladly kept it forever, if given a chance. After all, such knowledge offers the chosen one a powerful leverage against both Albus and the rest of the Wizarding society. The other unforeseen consequence of the fiasco was that Harry redirected his rage from the Ministry and Fudge, as Dumbledore had planned, to Albus himself. His perfectly orchestrated and carried out plan spectacularly backfired right into his face.

_The only good thing that came out of that whole mess is that Black is finally out of my hair for good_, Albus mused. Ever since his escape, that man had been a constant thorn in Albus' side, persistently challenging his authority over Harry's wellbeing. With him gone, Harry was finally ripe for picking by a true mentor figure. And Albus had every intention of being the one Harry would choose.

But now, just as his damage control scheme was in place, Harry had to play teenage rebellion and run away from home. Not only did he visit Knockturn Ally, which was already bad enough, but he also spent a significant amount of time interacting with its occupants. Who knows what sort of things he heard from them, what information he gained.

_Harry must be found and retrieved at all costs_, Albus decided firmly. _I can't allow some street lowlife messing around with my project._

Albus looked up and saw his minions standing around him, patiently waiting for his decision.

"Very well," he said resolutely. "We'll have to do this the hard way. I'm calling in the Order meeting in half an hour. Meet me at the Grimmauld Place."

"Err, Sir..." said Tonks timidly. "The headquarters are no longer at Grimmauld Place, remember? The house locked itself down after Sirius... you know."

"Oh yes, thank you, my dear. Silly me," said Dumbledore in his distracted, senile-like voice. Of course, he knew perfectly well that Headquarters were relocated to a different location after Lord Black's signet ring disappeared, along with its bearer, behind the Veil of Death. Albus carefully honed his senile persona because it made people underestimate him and put their guards down around him. Not to mention it was awfully funny seeing powerful witches and wizards taking orders from a seemingly crazy old codger. "To the cabin, then," Albus said resolutely, as if trying to cover his 'blunder'.

Order members nodded sadly at their distracted leader and disapparated. Albus activated his Order pendant, set it to 'full meeting right now' and sighed.

_Harry, Harry, what shall I do with you?_, he mused. This situation required careful handling. On one hand, he had to punish Harry and prevent any further insubordination on his part. On the other, he still had to play the role of a good-natured, lenient grandpa. _Some hard words and a few new restrictions but with a couple of boons along the way_, he mused. _Carrots and sticks, carrots and sticks... that tactics always works... Especially if someone other than me holds the stick. Maybe the Ministry... or Severus. Yes, I will have to think further on this_, he decided and apparated away.

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The old man said 'arrangements' but Dursleys knew he actually meant 'punishments'. For them or for their wayward nephew, they didn't know, and hoped they would never find out. They watched as wizards walked out of their home, giving them dirty looks. They waited for a few minutes and then heard popping sounds, which they associated with freaks arriving or departing.

There was a brief silence in the living room of No.4 Privet Drive. Then Vernon looked at his son and said, "Do it."

Dudley pulled out a newest model of cellular phone, which his parents gave him for his last birthday, and typed in a SMS message. When he finally pressed the 'send' button, there was a palpable air of relief in the room.

"Our part is done," Vernon grumbled. "That brat better live up to his end of the bargain."

"Who is for an early supper?" chirped Petunia and the life at Privet Drive went back to a blessed normality.

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**Author notes  
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**EDIT: This chapter had been edited after the posting of chapter 8. I've rewritten a lot of it to match my current writing style, but the plot remained the same. **

**o - About Privet Drive wards **

Blood Wards protect Harry's home from Voldemort only. Otherwise, they would have protected him from Dudley's friends beating him up and Dementors in book 5. Also, he wouldn't need constant guards around the house. When Voldemort took Harry's blood, he somewhat weakened them, but they still work around the house.


	2. Davidovitch's

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**Potter's Resistance 1: Breaking Ties **

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**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic, and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to Harry Potter.

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**Chapter 2: Davidovitch's  
**«««****

A solitary figure purposely walked down one of the side alleys in the Knockturn Alley district. He was five foot eight tall, by the looks of him in his early twenties, with brown eyes and shoulder-length dirty-blond hair. He was dressed in beige and black robes, with mandatory hood that obscured most of his face. After all, not looking secretive in this neighbourhood was a straight giveaway. Local hags and scoundrels knew him by the name of Lucas Vader.

Even though muggle-educated dwellers realized this was a fake name, taken from a well-known muggle movie, no one in Knockturn Alley seemed to have a clue about this wizard's true identity, or purpose. All they knew was that the man who called himself Lucas Vader had appeared out of nowhere about a month and a half ago and settled himself in one of the middle-class rooms at Knockturn Lodge. He generally kept to himself, always quiet and polite, but distant. He was throwing fair amounts of money around, but he wasn't much for extravagance and luxury. He was openly neither pro-light nor pro-dark and he seemingly wasn't working for the Ministry.

Those idle enough to gossip about everything and everyone weaved all sorts of fantastic tales about this mystery man's background, ranging from a fallen-from-grace royalty, hiding from his vengeful relatives, to a South-African mercenary on a mission to assassinate the Minister. None of them came even close to the truth, which, even though far simpler than any of their fairytales, still came completely unexpected. For Lucas Vader's real name was none other than Harry James Potter.

Harry had constructed this fake identity one week after his daring escape. He has been using it ever since, building up his reputation in the underground circles of the Wizarding World. Nobody ever suspected that 'Lucas Vader' had anything to do with famous Boy-Who-Lived and Harry had every intention of keeping it that way. Thankfully, fake names were a frequent enough occurrence in Knockturn Alley. Even though idle rumours and speculations were a fair game, most of its dwellers knew better than to dig too deep in pursuit of their curiosity. After all, sticking your nose into other people's business could be rather deterrent to one's health in such neighbourhood.

Vader's only identifiable interest so far was in knowledge. He was making rounds of all the local shops, looking for any rare or forbidden book shopkeepers had to offer. He made himself a name, and created quite a commotion amongst the local buzzers, when he bought a complete set of Morhad Arven's journals.

Arven was a well-known dark scholar from 16th century. While not very powerful or innovative, he was extremely methodical and studious. He spent most of his life travelling across Europe and collecting all kinds of obscure knowledge he'd come across. By the time he was finally caught and executed for consorting with the dark forces, Arven managed to compile one of the better known Dark and Forbidden Arts textbooks. Like most of such collections, this one was also protected against duplication, leaving only twenty or so known copies in existence. And one of those copies had, until recently, been a prized possession of one Bernard Crabble.

Said Mr. Crabble has had the misfortune of getting himself caught inside the Ministry Of Magic building, parading around with a bunch of his Death Eater buddies, dressed in full Death Eater uniform. While some of his more influential associates, like Lucius Malfoy, managed to slip through the cracks, Crabble and a few others were left behind, taking the blunt of the blame. They all ended up with a few decades in Azkaban and hefty fines they had to pay to the Ministry for destruction of property. Unfortunately for Mr. Crabble, his family coffers were already quite depleted, thanks to some not so wise business ventures he had been undertaking. That's why his wife, Melissa Crabble, had to resort to such drastic measures, as selling family heirlooms in the bowels of Knockturn Alley.

Rumour had it that Vader, having inspected the collection's authenticity, spat out the required sum of 1,600 galleons without batting an eyelash. He also made it very clear that he would be interested in buying any other valuable literature that Mrs. Crabble or her husband's imprisoned friends had to offer. In the following two weeks, Lucas has acquired more than a dozen other rare books and journals, spending over 5,000 galleons in the process.

Even now, Lucas was on the trail of a book, probably the most valuable book he had sought so far - the infamous "Anarchia". Unfortunately, the price for such book was more than just money. And Lucas was currently on his way to procure the first third of the payment.

**• • • • • **

Harry expertly steered through narrow alleys, avoiding hags and beggars. His path led him deep into the bowels of Knockturn district, where he finally reached his destination. It was a small, dingy and completely unremarkable combination of antiquary, pawnshop and junk store. He briefly glanced at a faded sign, which said "Davidovitchs - Fine second-hand hardware since 1957 AD." He snorted at the suggestive word-game, before stepping in through a rickety door.

Dark and dusty interior perfectly matched the shop's outside appearance. At the very entrance, Harry was greeted by a genuine medieval iron maiden, its spikes still coated with rusty-red blood marks. In the corner of the room stood a huge magical globe, political markings on it originating roughly from the middle of 17th century. As he walked down the narrow isle, Harry's eyes idly darted over rickety shelves, inspecting allegedly cursed jewellery, broken magical mirrors, disgusting old hats and other wrecked, outdated or outright useless knick-knacks. Simply put, it garbage, all of it. But like many things in Knockturn Alley, one had to scratch beneath the surface to find the real treasure. And in this case, the real treasure was idly sitting behind the shop's counter, in form of an older, heavy-set man with thick grey moustaches and little to no hair. Soviet red star shone brightly from his blue factory mantle.

Boris Davidovitch slowly lifted his grizzled eyebrows, revealing a pair of keen intelligent eyes, which immediately started inspecting every detail of Harry's appearance.

"Mr. Davidovitch," greeted Harry impassively.

"Yes, my name is Boris Davidovitch and I am the owner of this fine establishment," he drawled with heavy Russian accent. "And who might you be, young sir?"

"My name is Lucas Vader, as I might have mentioned when we first met, two weeks ago," answered Harry smoothly.

"Lucas Vader... Vader..." he drawled, letting the 'r' voice roll in true Slavic manner. "I'm truly sorry, young sir, but my memory is not so good as of late. Old age, you see. If you could please state the purpose of your last visit, it might help stir some memory."

"Certainly, Mr. Davidovitch," said Harry promptly. "You see, I had a slight problem with _focusing_ myself as of late, with all those stray thoughts _tracking_ me wherever I go. Thankfully, an acquaintance of mine recommended a rather _crafty_ solution. You see, he specified that you of all people, Mr. Davidovitch, might be able to make an excellent home-brew remedy for fixing problems such as mine. I had explained my problem to you two weeks ago and you generously offered to prepare for me five generic and one customized... _medicine_. You kindly informed me that brewing process would take up to 14 days and that I should come back then. Exactly two weeks have passed since that very day and here I am, ready to collect my order and pay up your fee, my good sir," said Harry with exaggerated flourish, unable to keep an amused smile from his lips.

"I see," drawled Boris. "Yes, it's all coming back now... customized with dragon heartstrings, I believe?"

"Phoenix blood, I'm afraid," answered Harry unfazed.

"Yes, I remember now, phoenix blood. Very rare, very... expensive," he drawled, giving Harry an inquiring look.

"But well inside my price range, I assure you," said Harry, retrieving a money pouch from his robes and giving it a noisy shake.

"I see..." he drawled, only briefly glancing at the money and then giving Harry one more piercing stare. "Well, mister... Vader, I was fortunately able to prepare... the medicine you've requested. If you would please follow me to my private quarters, we should be able to conclude our business with some much needed privacy," Boris said as he flicked his wand, making the sign on the front door switch to 'closed'.

"Certainly, lead the way, Mr. Davidovitch," said Harry and followed the old man through the door behind the counter.

Davidovitch's private quarters were dark and dingy, like the rest of his shop. Boris led Harry to one seemingly empty wall at the end of corridor and placed his hand on a skull in one of the surrounding shelves. The skull glowed with soft bluish hue, inspecting Davidovitch's hand for identification.

"You know," said Harry, "you could have simply given me a password when we first met, and avoided this whole charade."

Boris heartily laughed and said cheerfully, "Where would be the fun in that, eh kid?" Gone was his thick Russian accent and drawling voice. There was still slight Slavic-like tone in his words, but that was now barely noticeable.

At that moment, the glow faded and the wall slid away, revealing a narrow staircase. Harry followed the owner downstairs and shortly found himself in a spacious workshop. In the centre of the room was what Harry dubbed a carpenter's workstation - large desk surrounded by racks containing variety of wood-processing tools. The right wall was lined with branches of various magical woods from around the world. The opposite side was covered with shelves filled with samples from all kinds of magical creatures from around the globe. Far wall was empty, except for a blue, metallic sign with a carved golden writing on it. Harry didn't speak Russian, but this table was stuff of Knockturn legends, and so was the caption on it: "Davidovitchs - makers of exquisite wands since 967 AD".

**

* * *

**

Name "Davidovitch" is nowadays nothing more than a faded caption on a dingy pawnshop, lost in the jungle of Knockturn slums. However, a century ago, that title was synonym for quality wands in the whole northern part of European Russia. Famous sign, that caught Harry's attention, was originally crafted by the founder of family business, Oleg Davidovitch. It was the first thing he did after he finished apprenticeship under English wand-maker Darius Ollivander and returned to his birthplace Saint Petersburg to start his own workshop. Generation after generation of Davidovitchs was taking over the business, but that sign always had a place of honour above family shop's entrance.

That was until 1920's, when Magical wing of Communist party started forceful nationalization of small Magical shops across the country. Only thing that Boris' grandpa, Georgy, managed to take when they kicked him out was the shop sign, which represented his only connection with generations of his ancestors. All craftsmen that had lost their shops were appointed to work in a newly opened "Leningrad Magical Factory," which would provide the whole western Russia with magical supplies.

Unfortunately, the only job Georgy was able to find was in cauldron department, since prestigious wand-making sector was immediately populated by people with strong Party connections. But Davidovitchs were patiently waiting their chance. Family trade was passed, along with the old shop sign, from Georgy to Vladimir and at last to Boris. Since by that time enough higher-ranking comrades managed to get themselves killed by either the Nazis, Grindelwald or politics, Boris was finally given the chance to become a carpenter's aide in the Wand Department of S.M.F.

Thanks to his talent and family lore, he swiftly progressed through the lower ranks, reaching the position of a master carpenter. He quickly sensed a major glitch within his department. At the time, the Workshop made wands with several standardized core and wood combinations, and sent them to the transport department. Problem was that said department did its job automatically, without considering the variety of products they were distribution. Local markets often happened to receive a shipment of almost identical wands, leaving a whole lot of wizards with incompatible and unresponsive magical foci. Boris correctly sensed political climate at the time, worked hard in his free time and developed a completely new type of focus, which he named 'cocktail wand'. Of course, some paper-pusher later renamed it to a more bureaucracy-friendly name, 'generic wand', but the essence remained the same.

These wands were crafted by fusing many different types of core and wood into a single combined core and wood shaft, using a special process that Boris himself had designed. The final product was a wand that any wizard or a witch could use with an equal level of compatibility, which was approximately 40 percent of normal. Of course, such wands made more powerful spells extremely difficult to cast, but they were still good enough for normal every-day usage.

New wands were an instant hit with the Party bigheads. On their revels, they would often raise a toast to Boris Davidovitch, who, with heroic effort, managed to remove another thing that separated their comrades apart. "In an equal society everyone should have an equal wand," they would say, roast-beef and expensive champagne spilling from their mouths. Of course, they and their families still remained regular visitors of the Workshop's _'Customized wands'_ department. Thus, in one gigantic leap, the leaders had gained their moral victory and a bit better productivity, Victor had gained a job of the Chief Engineer in the Wand Department and two weeks of vacation at Black Sea and Soviet Magical Community was taken 2,000 years backwards.

They say that Davidovitch's downfall began when the Party assigned him an apprentice, an ambitious young man named Ivan Tvorov. Tvorov spent several years gaining his master's trust and learning all that his boss was willing to teach him about wand-making. In time, Boris took a liking to the talented young man and even showed him some of his family's sacred lore, valuable techniques that had rarely ever been taught to the outsiders.

When Tvorov finally felt there was nothing more his master was willing to teach him, then he struck. During one of the worker parties in a local tavern, he laced Boris' vodka with a combination of relaxing, anti-inhibition and truth potions, and then coaxed him into conversation about factory management and politics in general. He waited for Boris' tongue to get loose enough and then signalled to his contact inside the Internal Harmony Comity, whom he had bribed beforehand.

When the secret police broke in, they found Boris in a middle of another one of his "he is so stupid..." jokes about one particular high-up party member, who had made his life difficult before. Boris looked confused for a moment, but then he saw a smug look on Ivan's face and realized that he was busted. He knew what would follow - interrogation about his betrayal and a long-term sentence inside one of Siberian gulags. He threw one last hateful look at his former apprentice and then activated an illegal Portkey that he always carried in his pocket.

Boris appeared in his small flat, grabbed his most prized possession, mounted his broom and flew through the window just when he felt anti-apparition wards going up. He flew a whole night, low over Baltic Sea, and found himself on the shores of Finland early in the morning. He was cold and hungry. He only had his broom, factory uniform and the old family sign in his possession. But he still survived and lived on. He travelled across the Europe for the next several months, finally finding asylum in the land where his ancestors had learned their trade - England.

Once there, he immediately applied for the wand-making licence, eager to revive his family business. Unfortunately, the Ollivanders were tipped off about his request. They decided they didn't want competition so near their primary branch, especially one that offered better services than they did. So they threw some of their political clout around and pushed in a new law, stating that only third generation or higher British citizens were allowed to own a wand-making license. Defeated, Boris retreated to the slums of Knockturn Alley, opened his small pawnshop and seemingly disappeared from the community radar.

But Davidovitch's were not beaten yet. Boris's wife had died ten years ago, but she left him two sons. He taught them family trade, like generations of his forefathers did to their own children. His oldest son, Bernard, was already expecting a child, offspring that would become the first from the second generation of British Davidovitch's. Boris knew that he wouldn't live to see his family's honour restored, but he hoped that his sons would. And then, the old family sign would see the light of day again.

**

* * *

**

"Like it?" Boris suddenly asked, rousing Harry from his thoughts. "You know, this sign is over 1000 years old, made by my ancestor Oleg Da..."

"Yes, I know, Mr. Davidovitch. You told me all about it during the compatibility tests, two weeks ago." Harry briefly grimaced when he remembered the two-hour long process, during which he was subjected to a long sequence of complicated spells, potions and rituals, all the while listening to Boris' life story.

Boris looked mildly uncomfortable. "Well, you know what they say young man, memory and seniority don't mix well together," he said benignly. Harry briefly noted that every old man he had ever met tended to use this particular tactic. He mentally dubbed it the _'Poor-Old-Me disability card'_, mentally recalling an image of a crying, wrinkled and definitely non-twinkling Dumbledore whining about 'an old man's mistake'.

"Anyway," said Boris, interrupting Harry's musings, "here are the items you've requested. One, two, three, four and five improved cocktail wands..." He was handing Harry plain looking wooden shafts one by one. "They should have nearly 60 percent of the normal compatibility. The worst and the best thing I've ever invented, I tell you," he grumbled. Harry had to agree. While generic wands were indeed a technical masterpiece, they had magically crippled an entire country for over four decades.

"And one... customized wand," the old man said with much brighter disposition, while reverently holing a beautiful blackish wand. "Eleven inches, moderately flexible... Core from Phoenix's blood... The essence of light, forcefully taken. A conflict of opposites. Rather volatile, I'd say," Boris murmured, lost in his own world. "Shaft from the Siberian weeping-willow... a wood of sadness and loss... but also of vengeance. She'd let you clip a branch or two, but if you take too much..." He left the sentence hanging and suddenly looked up at Harry with a new light in his eyes.

"I hope you're not going to tell me you expect great things from me?" Harry half joked while extending his hand to receive his new wand.

"Don't know 'bout great," murmured Boris distractedly, making no attempt to give away the wand he was still tensely twirling in his hands, staring at it with slightly vacant eyes. He gave Harry another long, piercing stare and then nodded to himself, as if coming to a decision. "But it sure looks like you have some serious _ishak_ to kick," he smiled, as he shakily deposited the wand in Harry's waiting hand.

Harry took his new wand and felt the familiar feeling of power rising in his gut, as a shower of white and dark-red sparks shot from its tip. While the white sparks merely hovered around, radiating an aura of serenity with just a hint of Phoenix's song, red sparks were angrily flying around, leaving small scorch-marks on anything they touched.

Then suddenly, amidst the light show, there was a large burst of flames. Both men jumped in surprise at what they saw, Harry almost dropping the wand that was still sparkling with magic. A sky-blue phoenix appeared above Harry's head, hovered for a few seconds surveying the workshop and then gracefully landed on a nearby worktable. Harry and Boris haven't even regained their senses properly, when they were startled again by two more bursts. While Davidovitch appeased his nerves with a string of Russian expletives, Harry looked around and noticed that they had two more visitors. A large, regal-looking phoenix, with red-orange plumage and a smaller one, splattered in tufts of orange, yellow and green, were perched together on the shelf with core samplers. Harry noticed that the smaller one had exactly the same hue of orange as the phoenix beside him. _Could he be the red-one's fledgling?_, Harry wondered. Two new phoenixes immediately engaged themselves in a staring contest with the blue one, who didn't seem all that pleased to see them.

Three birds waited for the magic radiating from Harry's wand to die out and then started trilling amongst themselves. Two dumbstruck men watched in fascination what seemed like an argument between the blue phoenix and a coalition of the other two. 'Red' was singing soothing tones at 'Blue', as if trying to prove some point and pacify him at the same time. 'Yellow' trilled a sound now and then, but mostly remained silent, letting his bigger companion deal with the 'situation'. 'Blue', on the other hand, didn't seem to like what 'Red' was saying. He was singing back angrier and angrier, glaring at the other two birds. "Red' suddenly shut up and seemed rather taken back by 'Blue's furious burst of song, which at this point could only be described as a temper tantrum. After several seconds of angry screeching, 'Blue' was finally done, but he kept glaring at the other two, as if daring them to respond.

'Red' briefly seemed at a loss what to do, but then he redirected his attention at 'Yellow' and trilled a few soothing tones. 'Yellow' didn't seem all too happy with what 'Red' was saying and sang back angrily. What followed was a hushed argument between 'Red' and 'Yellow', which ended when 'Red' put his figurative foot down with an angry trill, which shut the other bird down. 'Yellow' gave 'Red' a sad, pouty look and then turned his back to him, sulking. Harry was briefly reminded of Dudley's reaction when Petunia refused to give him what he wanted. He once again wondered whether these two phoenixes were father and son, a rather spoiled one at that. Upon seeing 'Yellow's reaction, 'Red' turned back to 'Blue' and gave him an angry screech, as if saying "See what you've made me do?". 'Blue', however remained unfazed, giving the other bird a contemptuous look, which was more than happily returned. 'Red' thrilled another soothing and apologetic sound at 'Yellow' and then disappeared in a burst of flames, followed shortly by the smaller bird.

'Blue' thrilled a short, happy tone at where 'Red' used to stand, with a smug look on his face. He then turned to the two flabbergasted men and started inspecting them with his radiant blue eyes.

Harry was the first one to snap out from this strange three-way staring contest between two wizards and a bird. "What the fuck's that?" he asked stupidly.

"I believe 'it' is called a 'phoenix', Mr. Vader," said Boris slowly, noticing an angry expression on the bird's face.

"I know that," said Harry irritably, trying to regain his composure. "I mean, what had just happened? Why were they here? Why is this one still here? What's going on?"

Boris had a thoughtful look on this face, as if remembering something he had heard a long time ago. "I believe there is something in my family's lore that could explain this situation. You see..." He clamped his mouth shut when the blue phoenix redirected his glare at him, giving him a pointed look. "On the other hand, I don't think that could be applied in this case. Totally irrelevant, yes..." Boris said weakly, shrinking under the bird's powerful gaze.

"Are you sure, Mr. Davidovitch?" asked Harry, giving him a glare of his own. "Why don't you tell me nevertheless? You never know when such knowledge might come in handy."

Davidovitch seemed to hesitate for a moment, causing the Phoenix to narrow his eyes even further, giving the old man a 'don't you dare' look. "Eh, that wouldn't... I couldn't possibly... I mean every wand-maker..." Phoenix interrupted him with a stern trill. "I mean... I just can't. I'm sorry, Mr. Vader," said Boris in defeated voice.

Harry saw that the old man was really itching to share some good story, but that damn bird somehow stopped him from doing it. "It's alright, Mr. Davidovitch, I was only curious," he said and redirected his stare at the phoenix, who was returning a smug, victorious look.

"So, what's your name, boy?" Harry asked the bird curiously, as he approached him with an outstretched hand. The phoenix narrowed his eyes irately at Harry's advancement. "What is that secret you wish to hide from me?" he asked the bird softly, while reaching out to pet him. Phoenix let out an angry thrill and pecked Harry's hand with his sharp beak, drawing some blood from the wound.

"Ouch! What the fuck?" Harry yelled, glaring at the phoenix, which meanwhile flew over his head and perched himself on the opposite end of the room, looking quite pleased with himself. Harry's mouth hung open in surprise. He was always getting along quite well with Dumbledore's phoenix, Fawkes. This refusal came as a total shock to him. _Not to mention that stupid turkey's keeping secrets from me_, Harry thought angrily. Boris, on the other hand, didn't seem all that surprised by this reaction; He just kept watching Harry's plight with slight amusement in his eyes. Phoenix threw Harry another smug look from the other end of the room and then trilled a short note, bobbing his head in a self-satisfied manner, as if saying "And stay away!"

"Why you little..." Harry's angry hiss was interrupted by a shrill beeping sound coming from his robes. Boris jumped in surprise for the third time that day and then started cursing, reverting to Russian once again.

_Poor codger will end up having a heart attack one of these days_, Harry mused, as he retrieved a muggle cellular phone from one of his inner pockets. He inspected the tiny monochrome screen and opened the SMS message he had just received.

_"Other freaks found out, send rest of the money. Dudley," _the message said.

_Shit,_ _I was hoping the masquerade would have lasted for at least another week_, Harry thought._ Oh, well, there is still that other misdirection I have planted. It should give me at least another week without the Order on my heels. _

Aloud he said, "Don't worry, Mr. Davidovitch, it's just a muggle communications device." Boris nodded in understanding, looking curiously at the contraption in Harry's hands. Harry threw another glare at the phoenix perching in the corner, feeling satisfied when he noticed that the ringing had unsettled the bird too, and then decided to finish this transaction. _This whole thing is getting much too weird for my taste_, he thought.

"Mr. Davidovitch, about the payment..." he said, pretending that the phoenix didn't exist.

"Yes, of course," Boris started, reverting to self-assured businessman. "You have 5 cocktail wands for 20 galleons each and 50 galleons for that custom job, with Phoenix blood no less, which makes it total of... 150 galleons. Take from that 50 galleon deposit you have already paid and you own me... exactly 100 galleons."

Harry nodded and pulled out a single banknote for 100 galleons, which looked like a fancy piece of parchment with a Gringotts seal on it. Boris took it gingerly and carefully examined the seal, waving his wand over it. Several seconds later, he nodded in confirmation and then escorted Harry back to the junkshop upstairs. Harry noted with satisfaction that the blue phoenix had fire-travelled away as soon as he left the room.

"That's right, find someone else to bug. Stupid turkey," he grumbled under his breath.

Upstairs, Boris took his customary place behind the counter and said in his fake accented drawl, "Well, Mr. Vader, I'm glad to see that my... medicine had worked in your case."

"Of course, Mr. Davidovitch, I am very grateful for your generosity," said Harry with flourish.

"Before we part ways... I would appreciate if you wouldn't mention my, err... healing skills to anyone with disposition towards _official_ health protection."

"Certainly, Mr. Davidovitch, my lips shall be sealed. Of course, I would also prefer for my visit here to remain a secret. Such a scandal would it be if a word of the problems that were _tracking_ me got out."

"Of course, young sir. I can already feel your visit fading away from my memory. Old age, you see."

Harry smiled at the old man's antics. "Then, I better take my leave. Good day, Mr. Davidovitch."

"And good day to you, young sir," Boris drawled and saw Harry out of the shop. "And good luck," he added, after Harry closed the door.

**

* * *

**

After Apparating from Privet Drive, Albus Dumbledore found himself in the middle of a dark, ominous looking forest. Huge, gangly trees, tangled with vines and weeds, seemed to be thousands of years old. Piles of decayed leaves and intermingled tree roots were hidden under a thick layer of fog. Cold, damp air carried indistinguishable sounds of wild animals, many of whom were definitely magical.

The woods would have looked totally forgotten and untouched by human hand, if there weren't for a barely distinguishable image of a red phoenix painted on a nearby tree. A closer inspection of the picture would reveal that what at first seemed like a single tree trunk was in fact a peculiar formation of four tall trees, who had seemingly grown up fused to each other, forming a tight square. Underneath the washed-up picture, each of the trees had a veritable maze of tiny runes carved along their height. One purpose of these strange posts was to serve as a reference point for Apparation. The other was to act as anchoring points for the cubic variation of the Fidelius wards.

Disregarding occasional pops of Apparation around him, Albus looked at the entrance point and mentally projected the key phrase.

_"The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix can be found at Moody's cottage, La Fey's forest, Scotland Highlands."_

The trees suddenly moved apart and zoomed off in four different directions, creating a rectangular glade in the middle of the forest. The field was flat and almost completely bare, splattered with what looked like explosion scorch marks. In the centre of the glade was a two-story high, sturdy-looking wooden house. All the windows were boarded and the walls fortified by battlements, tangled up in a vicious looking barbed wire. Shortly, the whole place looked like a World War I fortress under siege.

Albus pulled out his Order pendant and tapped it with his wand, muttering this week's code phrase. He then nimbly walked through the glade, carefully following the pull that the amulet was giving. _Left... Forward... Right... Forward..._ On his way, he cheerfully greeted other Order members, who were holding their own pendants and following similar imaginary path through the field. They all looked like a bunch of zombies, slowly advancing towards the house. Albus inwardly shivered when his eyes crossed over a nearby scorch mark. He knew that Moody had put them around just for the effect's sake, but they still looked extremely sinister and foreboding. Thankfully, Albus managed to persuade Mad-Eye to replace real live mines and lethal booby-traps, that he had been using before the Order had moved in, to less lethal means of incapacitating the intruders. Tonks was simply much too valuable for the Order to lose her on their own security measures. In return for this generous favour, Moody requested that they shift the traps around at least once each week. Thus, Albus was forced to alter all of the Order amulets, making them capable of showing the correct way through Moody's ever-changing minefield.

After a minute of careful walk, Albus finally reached the cottage, cursing his lieutenant's paranoia. He found himself in front of a sturdy wooden door, with a plain-looking doorknob and a brass-knocker. But Albus knew better then to reach for either one of them, since they were both heavily jinxed. Instead, he found a small, carved symbol, which could have easily been mistaken for a crack on the wood, and reached for it. Surprisingly, instead of an empty air, his hand grabbed an invisible doorknob and turned it, opening the door.

The doorway was charmed to inhibit more than one person from passing through it between each opening and closing of the door. Furthermore, every time the door was closed, the carved symbol along with the invisible doorknob would be shifted to a new, random location, forcing the next person in line to stop and search for them. The main result of the entire system was that people were forced to enter the cottage one by one, preventing any sort of a large-scale invasion from happening.

Albus let himself in, and closed the door behind him. He vaguely felt slight shift of magic from the door, indicating that the mark had indeed changed place. Albus found himself in main corridor of the hut. On the left side was a doorway to the Order's main meeting room, which is where they would gather today. On the right side was a rather spacious kitchen, with a small table in the middle of it. Albus had been outright ordered to magically enlarge the room, since Molly absolutely refused to work in Moody's bachelor conditions. Next to the kitchen was the Order's command centre, from where its agents were constantly monitoring both the headquarters' defences and Death Eater activity around the country. At the end of the corridor was a surprisingly cosy living room, with several armchairs and a large fireplace. Whoosh sounds coming from there indicated that it was connected to the floo network. Albus absentmindedly noticed there was at least 5 seconds of pause between each two arrivals. It was of course yet another system for preventing a swift Death Eater raid, which was one of Mad Eye's worst fears. Upstairs was Moody's personal area and several guest bedrooms, where stranded Order members could crash in for the night. The whole interior was simplistic and utilitarian, looking more like a military barracks than someone's home. Dark detectors and foe-glasses littered around the house only added to a rather foreboding atmosphere.

But what attracted Albus' attention the most was a commotion currently happening in the main corridor. In the centre of the hustle were, as expected, the Weasleys, who have ganged up on poor Tonks, demanding to know what had happened to their precious little Harry. Judging by the never-ending torrent of screeches and reprimands that echoed throughout the hallway, Molly was the one leading the angry mob in their quest for answers. Luckily for him, Remus had somehow managed to wiggle his way out of that mess; He was currently sitting at the kitchen table, drowning himself in firewhiskey. Snape simply loomed in the corner, smirking at a 'stupid Gryffindorish show of emotions'. Several Order members were watching the show confusedly, obviously having no idea what was going on.

Albus flashed his aura, letting some of his raw magical power flood the room. He also played with illumination a bit, emphasizing his glowing pink-emerald figure against dark and dreary walls. That had quickly gotten everyone's attention, leaving the hallway in tense silence.

"Let us retire to the meeting room, ladies and gentlemen; We have a lot to discuss."

"Albus, what happened to the poor Harry? He wasn't caught by You-Know-Who, wasn't he?" Molly wailed.

"Yeah, where's Harry?" piped in Ron.

He and Ginny were spending some of their time here, helping with the upkeep of the new Headquarters. They were needed because Moody had absolutely refused to allow any house-elves into his house, after 'the Kreacher incident' two months ago. Unfortunately, the Headquarters still needed some redecorating and the Order members had neither the inclination nor the time to deal with such mundane task. That's why Albus was forced to resort to his old tactic and use children labour instead. A few wise 'advices' to Molly and Arthur about 'keeping the family together in this time of darkness' did the trick splendidly. They even ended up believing it was their idea in the first place. Thus, Ron and Ginny were immediately whisked away from lazing around in the Burrow and given a long list of chores they were to finish before the end of the summer. That's how they found themselves a part of the Weasley mob that had almost lynched Tonks for answers.

Albus twinkled at the crowd benevolently, raising his hands in an appeasing motion. "Now, now, Molly, all will be revealed once the rest of our friends arrive," he said kindly, but with clear dismissal. "In the meantime, why don't we converge in the meeting room? We wouldn't want our tardy colleagues to get the best seats now, would we?" the headmaster chuckled and trotted off cheerfully through the left doorway. McGonagall and a slightly tipsy Remus were right on his heels, quickly followed by groups of quietly gossiping Order agents.

"Ginny, Ron, go to your rooms," said Molly and turned to follow the others.

"But mum, it's about Harry, we have to find out what happened to him," whined Ginny.

"No buts, Ginny. You know this is for grownups only," said Molly gently.

"But muuum..."

While Molly and Ginny were busy arguing, Ron remained silent, sulking inwardly.

_Damn! Nobody ever tells me anything. Like they are so much better than I am, just because they're older. It's not fair_, he whined.

_You mustn't miss this meeting, boy! This could be important. Use your best friend card and get in!_, another voice said in his head.

_Yeah, like they would let me in just because of that. Most of the meetings are about Saint Potter anyway and I'm still never invited. _

_This is not just another meeting, stupid boy! Didn't you see how nervous that changeling was? Didn't you notice the werewolf's condition? What have I told you about observing your surroundings? _

_Err... Always examine people's faces and analyze their expressions, try to determine their motivation. _

_So why aren't you? Don't you want to achieve something? Don't you want to rise above your brothers, to outshine your classmates, to prove yourself to Granger, to step out of the Potter's shadow? _

_- Yes, but it's still not fair. Why do I have to work for everything, while they just get it on a silver platter? _

The other voice seemed to huff in exasperation.

_Be that as it may, whining about it won't help you one bit. Instead, think on how you're gonna get yourself into that meeting. _

_I've already told you, they would never let me in. Believe me, I know, I've tried before. Besides, I'll learn what happened eventually. What's the rush? _

_Not good enough, boy! I told you hundred times, never give up! Otherwise, you'll never amount to anything. _

_But it's impossible! _

If a disembodied voice could sigh, this one definitely would.

_Very well. I'll get you inside myself, you incompetent nincompoop... Just do what I tell you and you might even learn something this time. _

_All right mister great and mighty... err... mister X! You've just got yourself a deal. But you better not make myself... me make a fool of me... myself. Not make me make myself a fool of... _

_Try not to think so hard, boy. It's not pleasant up here when you're straining your brain like that. _

_Hey, watch your mouth... err, brain waves... _

_Shush, it's time for action. _

At that moment, argument between Molly and Ginny was slowly winding down.

"No, Ginny, I can't allow you inside, you're just too young. Come on, honey, why don't you be a good girl and go play in your room..." pleaded Molly at a pouting Ginny, who was still refusing to give up. Ron started towards them, but the Voice interrupted him.

_No, not with her. She's dead set on protecting the two of you from reality. Naïve woman, she should know better. Go directly to Dumbledore. _

Ron nodded slightly and steered around distracted Molly, entering the meeting room. Thankfully, the door was still open, since some Order members were yet to arrive. Ron timidly approached Dumbledore, who was sitting at the head of a grand table, waiting for his men to gather.

_Ask whether something happened to Potter. Act nervously and apprehensively. Whatever you do, DON'T look him in the eyes. _

Ron cleared his throat and asked Headmaster, "Sir, err, has something happened to Harry? 'Cause I've just heard Mrs. Tonks speaking about him and Professor Lupin won't say anything and I was just wondering what was wrong with my best mate... Sir."

_Very good. Being confused seems to come naturally to you_, the Voice praised.

_Thanks... Hey! _

Albus looked at the apprehensive lad and smiled gently, with twinkle in his eyes. He knew that Ronald Weasley was somewhat loudmouthed and rash, which was exactly why he had never approached him directly. Instead, he was controlling him using his parents, who were worshiping the ground Albus walked upon and would do anything he said. Ronald proved invaluable in steering Harry towards Gryffindor and away from following his ambitions. Thanks to him, Harry had spent countless hours playing games and talking about Quidditch, instead of exploring his powers and learning all sorts of dangerous information that didn't have place in the black-and-white world Albus had created for him.

A very useful tool, indeed. Still, it wouldn't do to give him any special treatment. Ronald already has problems with his ego. Inflating it too much wouldn't help at all. He'd probably end up bragging left and right how he had gotten one over his famous best friend, Albus mused.

"Ronald, my boy, you know that I can't discuss that with non-Order members. Why don't you go to your room for now? I'm sure Molly will gladly tell you all you want to know after the meeting is over," Albus dismissed him in his grandfatherly voice.

_As expected_, said the Voice._ Now accept his decision, turn around and leave. _

_What?_ yelled Ron in his mind.

_Don't interrupt, boy! As I said, turn around and walk away. And then murmur under your breath, but so that the old coot can still hear you, that it's no wonder that Potter had left, considering his recent behaviour. _

_What behaviour? I haven't noticed anything strange. _

_Of course you haven't, you dolt! You wouldn't notice a pink elephant if it were hanging right in front of that overlong nose of yours. But Dumbledore doesn't know that you don't know. We'll just have to invent something later, during the meeting. _

_Oh, I see now. _

Ron turned around and walked away. But just when he was at the door, he murmured, "With the way Harry has been acting lately, it's no wonder he left."

Dumbledore's ears perked up at that comment. _How was Harry acting? Hermione hadn't said anything the last time we spoke_, he wondered.

"Ronald," Albus called after the teenager's retreating back.

"Yes sir?" asked Ron innocently.

"Why don't you and your sister join us, just this once? I'm sure that your insight could prove to be more than helpful in this situation," said Albus in a kind voice, acting as if he was doing Ron a huge favour.

_Yes! I got you, you conceited bastard! Who is better now, you old goat?!_, yelled the voice in Ron's head. Ron sometimes sincerely wondered whether his mysterious companion was sane or not. He obviously harboured an unhealthy hatred towards Dumbledore. _On the other hand_, he mused, _who am I to judge? I'm the one hearing voices in my head._

"Are you sure, sir?" asked Ron confusedly. "I really don't want to be a bother."

_Very good boy, you're learning_, said the Voice approvingly. _Just don't push it around Dumbledore. The old man can detect a lie from a mile away. Thank your lucky star he's not concentrating on you right now. _

"Of course I'm sure, my boy. Come along sit down there. You too, Ginevra, don't be shy now," Albus said kindly.

Molly and Ginny stopped their argument and whipped their heads at Albus' words. Ginny was looking at Ron like he was God, while Molly immediately started to protest. "But Albus, they're just children! We can't let them get involved in the war. They could get themselves killed!" she screeched.

"Now, now, Molly, this is just a one-time exception. We are certainly not initiating them into the Order or sending them into battle. We just need their unique insight in this particular case. They are Harry's friends, after all," said Dumbledore mildly, but sat straighter and released just a little bit of his aura. His current image screamed with benevolent authority, kind of which you _wanted_ to obey.

"But Albus, we've agreed that they are still much too young for this," she wailed.

"Trust me, Molly, it's for the best," said Albus in his knowing manner.

Molly sighed and relented. "Whatever you say, Albus. I trust you know the best." She then turned to the two gleeful teenagers and said sternly, "You two, listen up. I'll allow you inside, but just this once. You will not speak about this to anyone. You will sit quietly and be on your best behaviour during the meeting. One offence from either one of you and you're both back to your rooms. Am I understood?"

"Yes mum," they chorused and took their seats at the table, anticipation written all over their faces.

_Eh, if all of my subjects were like Molly and Arthur_, Albus sighed wishfully, as the Order members settled down. _Some people are always questioning my plans, as if they could possibly know better. _Albus truly enjoyed the art of gentle manipulation, but from time to time, he craved for simplicity of direct orders. He never approved of Tom's methods but certainly understood their benefits.

"Welcome!" he said simply and captured everyone's attention. "We have gathered here, on this emergency meeting, to address a newly-arisen issue concerning our own charge, Mr. Potter."

"What issue is that?" asked Kingsley, who had just arrived from the Ministry.

"To put it simply, and to confirm rumours that have been passed around, Harry is gone," he said and leaned back to calmly observe the newly arisen chaos. Oh, heated arguments were so much fun. Albus avidly followed the flow of emotions between people at the table, as accusations and denials were thrown around. For an accomplished Legilimens, it was like watching a thunderstorm on a warm, summer night. Of course, Albus could have introduced the news gradually and kept the meeting under control, but where was the fun in that?

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Half an hour later, Order members slowly filled out of the meeting room, each with their own appointed task in the organized search effort. Each even remotely important area of the wizarding world would be combed for the clues about Harry's whereabouts by one or more Order agents. Albus himself would check Gringotts and a few other possibilities that only he could access. The light wizards chatted for a few more minutes about their prospective missions and then dispersed, leaving Dumbledore alone at the table.

Albus had a sudden urge to let go a maniacal laughter, like he would sometimes do when he was alone in his office. It was such a thrill ordering people around, making them do something without even knowing why they're doing it. Unlike Tom, Albus never got kicks from direct submission or grovelling. But to subtly push people around, create conflicts and then resolve them, to hold information crucial for his subjects and then reveal it bit by bit, to speak in riddles that everyone take for some grand wisdom, to watch from above as his inferiors mile around, living their little lives, not even aware that they are nothing but pawns on Albus' mental chess board... Gentle manipulation was so much better than directly torturing some poor chap - any fool could do that. Albus sometimes felt almost like God; Benevolent but all-powerful, all-knowing but mysterious, always there but never outright available. Just thinking about it gave him a slight erection.

_Ah, but no time for daydreaming now_, Albus reprimanded himself. _It's time for me to check with my spy at Gringotts. I wonder just how much money did Harry spend for this little escapade of his._ The fact that Slimepick, Harry's account manager, hadn't contacted Albus earlier was worrying and required an immediate investigation. Albus briefly considered using his ultimate spy, but decided not to risk revealing that card just yet.

Because tomorrow, the Order members would meet again and present their findings to the group. And Albus was hoping that Harry would be a guest of honour at that meeting, shamefully awaiting his punishment.

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**Author notes  
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**EDIT: This chapter had been edited after the posting of chapter 8. The plot remained the same. The only significant change is somewhat different description of Moody's cottage. However, this won't play any part in this particular fic (it might in the sequel, though). **

Also, special thanks to Alexeyy, who helped me fix some errors in my portrayal of Russia/Soviet Union.

**o - About magical Russia **

I'm not Russian. All that info about Russia was pulled out of an Encyclopaedia, with some very limited personal experience added for good measure.

Problem with transport I stated was very real. They would simply dump products in trains and distribute them randomly around the country. It happened that whole cities got only shoes of one size or t-shirts of the same colour etc.

At the time, everyone was trying to have everything equal, meaning the same models of clothes, same colours, buildings, haircuts... Politicians of the time would have gladly sacrificed quality of wands for the fact that all the wizards would be equal.

**o - Sources and additional disclaimers **

Harry's fake name is a reference to Star Wars (Harry isn't very creative with names, I'm afraid).

Encyclopaedias used for reference are Microsoft Encarta 97 and Britannica 2005.

I don't own any intellectual property mentioned above.


	3. Anarchia

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**Potter's Resistance 1: Breaking Ties **

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**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic, and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to Harry Potter.

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**Chapter 3: Anarchia  
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As soon as Harry left Davidovitch's, he was met by a blue plumage of the phoenix he have had a spat with back in the old man's workshop. The bird was sitting on a nearby roof, staring curiously at Harry.

"Oh, it's you again," Harry said without much enthusiasm. Like everyone else, he generally liked phoenixes, but this particular specimen was already getting on his nerves. And the feeling seemed to be completely mutual.

The phoenix had titled his head a little and just kept observing the young wizard.

"Well, it was nice seeing you again," Harry said with false cheer, "but I am sure you have a lot of bird-things to do. So don't let me keep you."

The phoenix didn't seem at all that fazed by Harry's words. Actually, it seemed as if he hadn't heard him at all.

"Well if you have a lot of spare time, I sure as hell don't. So why don't you just shoo away. Go bug someone else. Catch a frog or something," he said dismissively and started down the alley.

Phoenix ignored Harry's words and just flew to another roof, grumpy wizard.

Harry stopped dead in track when he saw the phoenix again. "I thought I told you to bug off. I'm sure there are tons of people that would be thrilled to see you, but I'm not one of them. So, get lost," Harry said, only to see the phoenix totally unresponsive. "Err... You're not going to keep following me wherever I go, are you?" The phoenix remained stoic but there was now amusement in his eyes. "You are," Harry deadpanned, with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

_He's probably just like one of those kids, who think that everyone should like them just because they are cute,_ Harry mused grumpily.

He then decided to hurry up with his daily agenda. He was certain that damn bird would abandon him when he realized his company was not appreciated.

_Besides, I can't spend a whole day arguing with a stupid turkey. Dumbledore's probably having an Order meeting right now. His lapdogs will soon be crawling all over the Alley searching for me. Better not tempt my fate by staying out for too long. _

With that thought, Harry took off towards his final destination for the day, the phoenix following him from roof to roof. After several minutes, it was really starting to grate on Harry's nerves. That damn bird seemed to have no intention whatsoever of leaving him alone. Harry was starting to worry that someone would notice such an exotic bird following him around. Something like that could completely ruin his reputation in the Alley. No self-respecting ruffian would even think of selling Dark Arts to a guy with a phoenix on his shoulder.

Harry gritted his teeth in annoyance and decided for a different approach. He made sure that the bird was behind him and nonchalantly walked down the alley. The moment he disappeared behind the corner of a secluded alley, he retrieved his invisibility cloak from a large pocket on his robes. Ever since he started living dangerously - well, more dangerously than usual - Harry made it a rule never to go anywhere without it. And this was exactly the kind of situation where his vigilance would pay off. Harry quickly donned his cloak and tiptoed down the opposite way, eventually breaking into a run.

After several minutes of jogging through the maze of dingy alleys, Harry stopped and turned back, trying to see if he was still being followed. Just when he was about to declare the bird gone, he turned around and saw the familiar blue phoenix standing on a nearby wall, staring right through him. Harry tried to sneak pass the bird, only to see that the avian's amused eyes were following his every step. Harry cursed as he angrily took off the useless cover. _He can see through invisibility cloaks. Just great_, he grumbled mentally.

Having packed his cloak back into his robes, Harry gave his nemesis another glare. He was met with a smug, victorious look that made his blood boil with irritation and anger.

_Why is that damn turkey so dead set on making my day miserable?_, he thought furiously. _All I need now is someone noticing that I have a fucking phoenix following me wherever I go._

"Listen, this is not funny anymore. You are drawing attention to me. I could get killed around here if I'm seen with a phoenix," Harry hissed to the damnable bird, who was completely unfazed by his exaggerated words.

_Maybe that's what he wants_, Harry thought furiously. _He hates me for some reason so he decided to completely ruin my life, preferably ending it completely. Damn, I thought phoenixes were supposed to be good and kind and all that shit! But no, this stupid peacock thinks it's fun playing games with me! Well, we'll see who can play rougher... _

Harry drew a deep breath, trying to stop his mental rant. His hand was itching to try out his new wand on that damn pest, but he managed to stop himself from making a scene. _No, that's what the old me would have done. I don't want to be that person anymore_, he thought.

They say that the hardest thing to change is yourself. But for someone with Harry's drive, determination and will to survive, that was not only possible, but very likely, given the right motivation, of course. And you don't get much better motivation than finding out that the two greatest wizards of the century are out to get you, one seeking your complete obedience and the other your head. Finding out that all possible escape routes are cut off by a true prophecy, stating that you have to face one of them, was only the final nail on the coffin of Harry's old mentality.

After his godfather had died, thanks to his own foolishness, Harry made a vow to change himself for better. He promised himself that he would never again allow his intellect and logical reasoning to be overruled by hotheadedness and quick temper. It was all nice and dandy being an impulsive, noble kid in a schoolyard, but such behaviour could easily cost him his life in the war that was rapidly approaching. Or the lives of his friends, as he had learned during the D.O.M. battle. Thus, ever since that faithful day, Harry's every action was carefully analyzed, planned and executed. Sometimes, Harry was truly regretting for not allowing the Hat to place him in the Slytherin. Maybe he wouldn't have made as many friends, or had as much fun in that house, but he would have been much better prepared for the oncoming struggles. Besides, his daring escape from Privet Drive would have never succeeded with his old 'think on your feet and hope for the best' attitude.

Still, even though Harry did wonders with waking up his dormant Slytherin side, his nasty temper still managed to rear its ugly head now and then. And this was definitely one of those situations.

Harry took another calming breath and tried to think things through before he did anything rash, like obliterating the stupid bird. _Yelling at the bird or firing curses in broad daylight wouldn't solve anything_, he thought reasonably._ It would only draw attention to myself and I definitely wouldn't want that. I should try to appease the phoenix, to make peace with him. Better losing my pride than head_, he decided wisely and mentally congratulated himself for his maturity.

"Listen, Blue," Harry said gently. "I'm sorry for yelling at you, OK? We could just forget that whole spat and start fresh. I really want to be friends with you. Do you want to be my friend? Is that why you're following me?" he asked softly, while once again reaching to pet the phoenix.

At least he had finally gotten some reaction. Phoenix thrilled angrily and flew to a roof, out of Harry's reach.

"Shit!" Harry yelled, completely losing his patience. "What the fuck do you want!?"

"N-n-n-othing, h-h-onestly," someone stuttered from the floor. Harry looked down and saw a frail looking old woman, sitting terrified on the ground beneath him. Harry realized that, in his anger, he completely overlooked her, too busy glaring at the Phoenix perched on the rooftop above. _Not to mention screaming like an idiot and flashing my aura all over the street. Nice going, Gryffindork_, Harry congratulated himself sarcastically. He definitely had a long way to go before he was completely cured from his impulsiveness.

"It's alright, lady, I wasn't yelling at you," Harry said reassuringly. "It's that damn bird," he added through gritted teeth.

"What bird?" she asked, as she stood up.

"That phoenix on the roof," Harry said, while glaring at said bird, who looked quite amused by the whole spectacle.

The old hag looked up and then shook her head. "There's no bird up there, sonny. Especially no... was it a phoenix you said?" she asked surprised.

Harry looked at her weirdly and then back at the roof, where the blue phoenix still stood, looking more amused that should be allowed.

"Err... Not phoenix, just a big, stupid turkey," Harry said louder than necessary, while meaningfully glaring at the bird. "Anyway, it must have flown away."

"Whatever you say, sonny," old woman gave him dubious look, but didn't comment further.

"Well, again sorry for scaring you. I'll be going now," Harry said dismissively.

"Wait, sonny, you want some first rate niffler ears? I also have vampire fangs and..." But Harry was already gone behind the corner, blue phoenix flying in his wake.

After five more minutes of brisk walk through the maze of dingy alleys, he found himself in front of a decrepit looking pub, radiating with foreboding atmosphere. There was no sign to indicate name or even purpose of this establishment, but the regulars called it "Matt's place," by its illustrious owner and bartender.

As expected, Harry's persistent companion gracefully landed on the rooftop of the building before him. Harry gave him a contemplative look. During the rest of the trip, he had pretended not to notice the irritating bird, but that hadn't stopped him from thinking about the incident with the old hag.

"Nobody but me can see you, right?" he asked the bird after he made sure that nobody was around to hear him. Phoenix remained still, staring down at him. Harry absentmindedly rubbed his hand, where there was still a scar from the bird's sharp beak.

"When you pecked me," he said with a dawning realization, "you used my blood to create a magical link between us. That's how you can show yourself only to me and no one else."

Phoenix finally nodded slightly, his blue eyes shining with... what was it? Confirmation? Approval? Satisfaction? Harry shook himself from these thoughts. _I'm probably just imagining things_, he decided.

"That still doesn't mean I forgive you for screwing up my day," Harry said warningly. If that was possible, damn bird now looked even more pleased. He nodded slightly, as if to say "The feeling is entirely mutual".

"Smartarse," Harry mumbled and glanced at his wristwatch. "Shit!" he cursed. "Thanks to you, I'm 10 minutes late. I hope you're happy," he said through gritted teeth. The phoenix lifted his head in self-satisfied manner, confirming that yes, he was indeed happy.

Harry groaned, glaring daggers at stupid bird. "If you're gonna follow me inside, you better stay hidden from view. Or else..." He stopped, realizing he couldn't do anything to the nearly immortal creature. Thankfully, the phoenix seemingly decided that he'd had enough fun for one day and disappeared in a burst of red flame.

"Good. And stay away," Harry nodded, trying to regain some semblance of dignity.

_I've already spent too much time on that damn bird anyway_, he thought, then opened thick wooden door and stepped inside.

• • • • •

Harry found himself in spacious rectangular room filled with tables and chairs. He surveyed the room and with some relief noted that his mysterious companion was nowhere to be seen. All around the walls were individual chambers, separated by wooden screens but open to the main room. In the far corner was a bar, with a huge, bald guy behind the counter. Only aisles and the bar were illuminated, while the rest of the room was washed in almost complete darkness. Loud music from Wizarding wireless was blaring, making any kind of eavesdropping almost impossible. Shortly, the place was created for privacy and had 'illegal activity' written all over it. But patrons didn't mind this at all; After all, most of them were here for that exact purpose.

Harry decided to take a stroll around the pub and look for his contact, while discreetly inspecting other people in the room. His eyes first stopped on the bartender, Mathew Goyle, who was at the moment polishing extremely dirty glass, while keeping one eye on the patrons. Matt may have inherited the patented Goyle thug-like look, but he was far more intelligent and resourceful than the rest of his family. One had to be if he wanted to keep his independence in a place like this. Matt had somehow managed to strike a deal with various conflicting factions of Wizarding World and transformed his pub into a sort of a safe heaven, or the wizarding Casablanca, as some would call it. It was a place where Death Eaters, ordinary criminals, dark creatures, squibs, Unspeakables and Hit-Wizards could meet and have a drink, a friendly chat or strike a business deal without looking over their shoulder. This state of permanent truce was enforced by all the factions concerned and avidly policed by Matt, who was a force to be reckoned with in his own right.

"Would you require anything, sir?" asked an aristocratic voice, rousing Harry from his musings. He turned around and saw a regal looking old man, who was dressed in what looked like many times patched and faded with time upper-class robes. Harry immediately recognized him as the pub's waiter, general errand-boy and public joke, nicknamed "BS".

"No thanks, BS, I'm just looking for a friend," said Harry, as he cast a localized silencing charm, shielding himself from the rhythmic blaring coming from the wireless.

"Now, see here young man, where I come from, it is considered extremely rude to call an older and far more respected man, like myself, by his... nickname," he said with clear distaste. "Kindly refer to me by my full name, which is Sir Barnaby Sullivan the Thirteenth. You should also note that I'm the sole heir of the Most Ancient and..."

"I'll call you later BS if I need something," said Harry and walked away from the flustered waiter, who was muttered something about "disrespectful youth nowadays."

But Harry had already heard his tale before. If you spent even a week in Knockturn circles, it was hard not to. Old BS would explain it at length to anyone willing to listen that these were the initials of his full name, Sir Barnaby Sullivan the XIII, the last heir of an old pureblood family line. Apparently, his job of a waiter was merely temporary, to pass time while waiting for some paperwork to arrive and give him back full access to his inheritance. He would also weave endless tales of his adventures from the time before his current financial glitches. Travels around the world, meetings with Wizarding jet set, heroic struggles against evil, oh yes, Sir Sullivan did it all. Of course, everybody knew that his stories were bullshit, which was the real reason behind his nickname. Most patrons also suspected that he was in fact a squib and that he was using an illegal boost-wand to create an illusion of being able to do magic.

Of course, proper Ministry-controlled 'touch-wands', that Squibs were using to access Magical enclaves, had to be clearly marked as such by a law that Pureblood supremacists had pushed through Wizengamot two centuries ago. But in Knockturn Alley, a more powerful, illegal version of this invention ruled the streets. So-called boost-wands were not only designed to look like ordinary wands, but they also had much larger magical reserves, allowing them to cast a couple of simple spells before having to be recharged by a real wizard. And while some squibs merely wanted a taste of magic now and then, the true purpose of these contraptions was to mask its owner's lack of magical ability. All over the Knockturn Alley you could find squibs pretending to be wizards by using illegal boost wands on semi-regular basis. Many frowned at such trickery, but Harry understood and sympathised with their situation. With Death Eaters on their tail, trying to exterminate 'the sludge of the Wizarding world', squibs were simply doing everything in their power to stay alive.

Stepping away from the old waiter, Harry redirected his attention to the patrons of the pub. At a near table sat two hags, exchanging something that looked suspiciously like human teeth. In the far corner, three female vampires were drinking blood from glasses and talking quietly among themselves. At another table, single haggard man had just received his order, which was a goblet with vile-looking concoction. _Wolfsbane potion_, deduced Harry, _the full moon is in two days_.

At another table sat a fidgety man, dressed in fine, colourful robes. He asked "Sir Sullivan," as he called him, to get him a butterbear. He then proceeded to nervously inspect his surroundings, as if expecting an attack. _Outsider, probably his first time in a place like this_, thought Harry, remembering his first foray into the Knockturn Alley with distaste. _Even I wasn't THAT obvious_.

In one of the booths, five young men in black robes were alternately toasting and rubbing their left forearms. One of them had a familiar-looking white mask hanging from his pocket. _Novice Death Eaters, celebrating their initiation. Cannon fodder_, thought Harry with disgust.

In another booth, a lone hooded figure was sorting through various trinkets spread across the table. _Seems like a successful raid_, Harry deduced. He would learn whose house was robbed from tomorrow's papers. Harry passed a few more booths that were spelled against peaking. He briefly wondered what was going on in there, but he knew better then to investigate.

Harry finally found the person he was looking for in one of the private booth, in a corner of the pub. He entered the chamber, which was already warded against eavesdropping and promptly sat across from his contact.

"You are late," that person said as a way of greeting. He was a corpulent man in his early forties, dressed in loose green robes with snug leather outfit beneath. He had a messy brown hair, with long sideburns that reached to his chin, but no moustaches or a beard. His whole outlook radiated with certain wild, untamed feeling, but his calculative brown eyes spoke of a very human intelligence and shrewdness lurking underneath his roguish exterior.

"I'm sorry Josef, I got delayed at Davidovitch's," Harry lied smoothly. No one sane would believe that he was delayed by a mysterious phoenix admirer, who apparently decided to follow him around, but still keep his distance. It sounded crazy even to Harry.

"Oh? How is the old man doing? Still into his antics?"

"If you're talking about his insistence on long and elaborate conversations as a method of checking you out, then yes," said Harry with slight smile.

"Ah good to know."

"For you, everything is good to know," Harry quipped.

"What can I say, an occupational hazard," said the man with a wolfish grin on his face. And indeed it was. For Josef Macmillan made his living by trading with knowledge.

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**

Josef was a rather unusual case, even by Magical World's standards. His mother was Helga Macmillan, a grandaunt of Harry's schoolmate Ernie and a part of the Macmillans, a well-known pureblood family. His father, on the other hand, was an unknown werewolf, who had raped Helga just a few hours prior to his transformation. When Helga had found out that she was pregnant, her family urged her to abort, but she repeatedly refused their pleads. Since her husband was long dead, she figured it was the only way for her to ever have a child. In the end, the family gave in, grudgingly agreeing to acknowledge the child as a full-fledged part of the family. Besides, since Lycanthropy curse wasn't transferred by procreation, the child's blood purity wouldn't be affected too much. Or so they thought.

Unfortunately, none of them noticed the fact that the child was conceived just a few hours before the werewolf rapist's transformation, when his animalistic features were already starting to show. That was how Josef Macmillan became one of the few ever-recorded half-werewolves in history. Half-werewolves were like normal people in every way, except for a few wolfish traits, like slightly better hearing and smell. During the full moon, these traits would gradually intensify and they would transform into something akin to a mixture between wolf and human. Still, they would never transform completely nor lose their mind, which made them perfectly safe, even if somewhat grumpy, company during these critical few days.

When the word of the baby's 'dark creature' status reached the family's ears, they immediately wanted him disowned and hidden from the public's view. Bastard, they could handle, but a werewolf on top of it? Their reputation in the high society circles would have been completely ruined. Fortunately, Helga put her foot down again, demanding that they give her son a chance. In the end, Macmillans grudgingly allowed her to keep the child, but only after she had accepted a whole list of stipulations regarding his status and upbringing.

Thus, young Josef grew up living by the strict rules his relatives had imposed upon him. He was technically a part of the Macmillan family, but was completely excluded from heredity hierarchy. He was never attended family functions or heredity rites. He was also never allowed to attend official balls or parties, nor socialize with family guests. When he turned eleven, he was home-schooled, mostly by his mother. Since he was never allowed outside the manor grounds and didn't have any childhood friends, he was spending most of his free time reading books from the family library. Only his mother ever cared about him and supported him. To the others, he was a dark secret they desperately wanted to hide and forget.

They finally got their chance when his mother unexpectedly passed away, leaving him without her lifelong protection. As soon as the funeral was over, 16-year-old Josef was promptly disowned and expelled from the manor, with only his trunk and a few hundred galleons they had given him, most likely to appease their conscience.

What they didn't know was that Josef's trunk was full to the brim with rare books he had 'borrowed' from the family library as soon as he saw what was coming. He sold these precious books in Knockturn Alley, under the name Macmillan just to spite his family, meeting a few important people along the way. He must have made a good impression, since he was soon swamped with offers from other people, wanting him to find buyers for their own books. He used his chance well, and after several years, managed to become the number one rare and illegal books dealer in Knockturn Alley.

Along the way, he was slowly building a vast network of contacts and acquaintances, spread across the entire Magical Britain. He knew people in any faction or place imaginable, from Death Eaters and Ministry workers, to merchants and squibs. He was especially well connected with dark creature communities, considering he himself was of a 'tainted' blood. On the other hand, thanks to his 'half' status, he wasn't completely shunned by the other groups, making him a sort of an unofficial ambassador of many dark creature packs he was having regular dealings with. This network allowed him to slowly expand his operation on intelligence trafficking, making him one of the prime dealers of information in Great Britain.

**

* * *

**

It was perfectly clear why people like Lucas Vader and Josef Macmillan would make natural allies. Any relationship between such two men, one with information to offer and the other always looking to buy, could only be mutually beneficial. Several successful transactions, with Josef acting as a mediator and Lucas as a buyer, further solidified their connection, raising their mutual trust to the level higher than normal between business associates. Harry wouldn't exactly call Josef a 'friend,' but a 'friendly acquaintance' would be just about right.

Harry's musings were interrupted by the arrival of BS, who brought a bottle of firewhiskey Josef had ordered earlier. Josef paid the waiter and then erected additional occluding wards over their stall's entrance, so that no one could see the transaction that was about to take place.

"So," said Josef, switching to his business-like tone. "Do you have them?"

Harry wordlessly retrieved five generic wands he had just bought and arranged them on the table.

"These are originals, right? Davidovitch's improved version?" he asked, while taking one to inspect it more closely.

"That's right," said Harry, "they should have around 60 percent compatibility; 20 percent more than those cheap Uniwands you can buy from every street peddler."

Josef snorted. "Of course they should. That crap that Tvorov's pushing left and right could never measure up to the good old Davidovitch's work," he said, while checking the wands for Ministry's tracking charms.

"Tvorov? As in Ivan Tvorov?" asked Harry, remembering the old wand-maker's life story. He had known that piles of cheap Russian merchandize were overflowing the market ever since the Iron Curtain had fallen, but never realized that Tvorov was involved in that mess.

"Yeah, Tvorov, as in Davidovitch's ex appetence," said Josef with disdain. "When pieces of the old Leningrad Factory went to privatization, the little rat somehow managed to grab the bulk of its patents, including Boris' life work. He made a deal with Russian mafia, and with their help opened his own factory, _'New Age Magical Bulkwork,'_ I believe. He then proceeded to flood European markets with cheap, low-quality stuff, destroying local small businesses and turning himself into a millionaire. Last I heard, he was here in England, negotiating with the Dark Lord, about _'mutually beneficial cooperation'_. In other words, the slimeball is securing his position with what he thinks will be the winning side, while trying to remain chummy with the Ministry, just in case he's wrong. You should better keep an eye on this bloke, Lucas. He just arrived to Britain, but he's already becoming a major player in all sorts of circles you wouldn't want to mess with," finished Josef sagely.

Harry nodded, deciding to take this advice to heart. With his vast experience in the intelligence business, Macmillan's analyzes are well respected in the underground society and usually turned out correct. Harry learned this for a fact when Josef correctly predicted which of the Death Eaters caught in the Department Of Mysteries would get away scot-free and which would take the blame.

With Russian businessman still on his mind, Harry raised his glass and toasted, "To the floating shits".

"And buried treasures," alluded Josef, raising his own glass and clicking it with Harry's. Both men downed their drinks and clapped empty glasses on the table. Harry felt proud of himself for not choking up on the firewhiskey, which he managed to achieve after only two weeks of nightly practice. After all, it wouldn't do for a respectful Knockturn resident like Lucas Vader to cough out his lounges out every time he toasts for the end of a successful business deal.

"Very well," said Harry, while refilling the glasses. "I gave you the items I promised. I brought the money we've agreed upon. Now... let's see the book."

"Fair enough," nodded Joseph. He then pulled out a thick tome from his robes and put it theatrically upon the table. Harry rotated the book and read a long title 'The Noble and Most Ancient House of Macmillan - Family Genealogy'. It seemed innocent enough, but that was the whole point. Nobody would ever look twice at a disowned Macmillan, carrying around his family genealogy as a reminder of his lost heritage.

"You know the drill, same as the last time. To see through the glamour, you need to drop some of your blood on the cover," said Josef.

Harry pulled out his new wand and conjured a needle. Josef raised an eyebrow at it, but remained silent. Harry then cut his index finger and dripped a few drops of his blood on the cover, as instructed. Book promptly absorbed the blood and, with a faint glow, morphed into its true form. On a plain black cover of this new book was a huge colourless gem. Above it, a single word was engraved in rich-looking golden letters: 'Anarchia'.

**

* * *

**

In the times of old, Wizard-kind had lived unrestricted and unsupervised by any government, barring an occasional Warlock meeting. They had usually owned a mansion towering over surrounding terrain, and ruled over the local muggles like Gods, or simply ignored them altogether. But with time, muggles grew stronger and bolder, overpowering wizard-kind's magic with their numbers, technology and organization. They soon started fighting back against oppressing wizards or recruiting the good ones for their own purposes. Well-structured muggle kingdoms and the Church had a surprisingly easy time of picking out unorganized wizards one by one, mostly thanks to the help of turncoat muggleborns working for them. Seeing that this trend would only increase with time, International Confederation of Warlocks convened for the first time and declared the now famous Statute of Secrecy, as the first rule that governed over all wizards in the world. In order to enforce this statute, the heads of the most prominent British families had gathered and formed the first abiding ruling body in Wizarding Britain - the Wizengamot.

At first, this new government was only enforcing compliance to the Statute of Secrecy and a couple of standard criminal laws. But in time, Wizengamot's influence expanded over all the areas its muggle counterparts were governing over, and more - constitution, economy, taxes, licenses, restrictions against dangerous magic and so on. Hand in hand with this expansion of state came the executive government, embodied in form of the Ministry of Magic. The Ministry, of course, had to occupy itself and prove its worth by declaring additional rules and regulations so they'd have something to govern over. New rules required new sections and subsections and underlings, who were all spending their time by creating even more rules and paperwork, creating the well known phenomenon called 'the never-ending circle of bureaucracy'.

Thus, in a few short centuries, wizards were degraded from living freely amongst the muggles as their betters, to patiently awaiting in a line for their Apparition license. It was no wonder that some of them fought back against this new 'government thing' that was trying to control every aspect of their lives. The underground symbol of this struggle was - and still is - a book called 'Anarchia', or more precisely, the people who own it.

No one is exactly certain whose idea initially was to start the whole 'Anarchia' society, centred around the now infamous book. The only thing known about its creation is a rough timeframe - the first half of the 16th century - and aliases of its first six owners, also known as 'the original members' or "the founders". They were _'Skull Lord'_ (which could have been created by twisting the word 'Headmaster' around), _'Candidus'_ (some say he was actually Junius Malfoy, the owner of a large part of Knockturn Alley at the time), _'Shadow Blade'_ (wrote a lot about assassination techniques and escaping the Aurors), _'Munus'_ (disgruntled Ministry clerk, judging by his articles), _'Chew-toy'_ (advices for Dark Creatures, especially Werewolves) and _'Pigbrow'_ (the initial owner of _Hog's head_, a disreputable pub in Hogsmeade).

Even this pittance of information wouldn't be widely available today, if there weren't for the sixth founder of Anarchia and his overwhelming greed. Pigbrow had seen that people would gladly pay good coin for 'his' book and decided to push the whole thing towards the wider audience, against the instructions of the other five members. He had created a bunch of advertisement leaflets, explaining the basic concept of the book and started passing them around amongst the patrons of his pub. He had managed to give out almost 100 pamphlets, before he was assassinated by an unknown party. After that incident, the book had undergone major changes and security improvements, resulting in almost impenetrable defences it has today. Also, an effort has been made by some mysterious party to round up and destroy all the leaflets circulating in the public. Still, about a dozen of them had survived the purge, making them the only public information available about Anarchia today.

So, here is what general wizarding populace can find out about the book.

In short, Anarchia is a compilation of practical information that authorities wouldn't want average wizards to know. It contains every type of knowledge imaginable, from dirty secrets of prominent citizens and ways to dodge Ministry laws, to forbidden spells, thieving techniques and advices for dark creatures. Its vast database is constantly being updated, by the current owners themselves. Since all existing copies of the book are magically linked, any article entered into one book is instantly transferred to all the other copies in the world. This makes Anarchia more than a simple book of forbidden knowledge - it is an entire underground society. And like any other secret society, rules for accepting new members are extremely rigorous.

Simply said, the only way to become a member of Anarchia is to find an existing member willing to let you in. Finding a member is hard by itself, since they tend to be rather tight-lipped about their business. Once you find them, persuading them to sell you the book is next to impossible. Reason for this is the first part of the initiation, which is basically a Legilimency test; something akin to the Sorting ceremony at Hogwarts, only much more rigorous... and dangerous. If a current member wishes to admit a new member only for his own personal gain, or a new member intends to report anything about the book to the authorities, the book will immediately Oblivate both parties and self-destruct. That's why it takes a solid amount of trust and respect between the parties for them to even consider 'testing it out'.

Even if the book accepts a new member, they still have to prove themselves worthy of the society by completing three requirements, so-called 'initiation fees'. Here they are, as they are explained in the book itself:

• • • • •

_1. Candidate has to pay the sum of gold relatively large compared to their financial status. The exact amount is determined by Anarchia. _

_2. Candidate has to procure magical item(s) forbidden or controlled by Ministry and hand them over to the seller. They can do it either by means of purchase or robbery. Required item(s) is chosen by the seller, in cooperation with Anarchia. _

_3. Candidate has to attack the Ministry, resulting in lowering its influence or damaging its reputation. Following solutions are advised: humiliation of Ministry's institution(s), humiliation of a high-ranking Ministry official, assassination of a high-ranking Ministry official, liberalization of Ministry law(s). Candidate may consult Anarchia if he has a different idea. Candidate has to execute this attack for specific purpose of gaining the membership - no previous deeds are acknowledged. Acceptance of the attack that is planned or already executed is determined by Anarchia. _

_Note: Candidate will be granted the membership with only two tasks completed. In that case, they will be required to complete the final task in a period of 30 days. Repercussion for non-compliance is permanent expulsion from Anarchia. _

• • • • •

Even after the book is finally obtained, there are still strict rules to uphold. Every time a member tries to open the book, they have to pass another Legilimency test, to determine their continuous 'loyalty' to the society. In addition, members have to 'renew' their membership every few months by posting their own articles. Anarchia itself determines whether these articles are acceptable and how much additional membership time are they worth. Only seasoned members are excused from this practice.

Any transgression from these rules warrants immediate expulsion, which is to say that the book self-destructs and its previous owner is forever banned from becoming a member again. These rules may seem draconic, but they are what's been keeping Anarchia fresh and up-to-date for over 400 years.

**

* * *

**

Harry roused himself from his daydreaming when the gem started shining in the combination of green and amber colour. He knew what this meant - he had already seen this glow during his initial Legilimency test two weeks ago. Some of his old fears returned to him. It wasn't easy knowing that a single traitorous thought could mean his immediate Oblivation and destruction of the book.

_Josef would kill me_, he thought panicky, and then added mentally, _if he even remembered who I am._

"Think happy thoughts," said Harry to Josef in a half-joking manner.

"I don't think that would work, Lucas," said Josef, as a brown beam of light shot from the gem and hit him in the eyes. Next moment, the same thing happened to Harry as well, only his beam was emerald green.

"I tend to agree," both man 'heard' in their minds. Harry immediately recognized that snide, aristocratic voice as Anarchia's enchanted intelligence. He briefly wondered why the founders had to choose a voice that was so much like Malfoy's. "I really don't understand why are you people so afraid of your own thoughts. I honestly don't care what you are SAYING in your mind, since I base my decision by judging your inner motivation. And no amount of 'happy thoughts' or other foolishness could hide that from me," drawled Anarchia in bored fashion.

"Really?" asked relieved Harry. "So you wouldn't mind if I said you were a useless heap of parchment that I'll give Fudge for his next birthday"

"Don't push it, Mr. Vader," said Anarchia with some annoyance, "I could easily _imagine_ I saw some treachery and where would you be then, eh?"

"I'll be good," blurted Harry quickly.

"Splendid," said Anarchia smugly. "Now, let's get down to business. Mr. Macmillan, I believe you have already received the second part of the initiation fee?"

"Yes," spoke Josef for the first time, "I, Josef Macmillan, member of Anarchia, accept the second part of the payment from initiate Lucas Vader," he said officially.

"Anarchia accepts this transaction. Mr. Vader, what else have you got for us?"

"I have decided to pay the first part now and adjourn the third part until later."

"Eh, the wizards nowadays," Anarchia sighed. "They all want instant results, without making an appropriate effort. Mr. Vader, you are aware what would happen if you don't deliver the third part in due time?"

"Yes," said Harry simply. Safe variant would have been to leisurely plan out his attack and then get the book, but Anarchia was right - he _needed_ the information now.

"Very well," said Anarchia. "I believe the sum we had agreed upon was 5,000 galleons. Mr. Vader?"

Harry nodded. He retrieved bundle of 50 banknotes and handed them over to Josef, who promptly started counting them.

The thing about Anarchia's price was that it was designed to make a _big_ dent in the initiate's vault, but still leave enough money to let them get back on their feet, probably by using the advices provided by the book itself. That way, new members were forced to immediately start using the book and consequently discover some new piece of information they could share with the society. Such pricing policy also fended off those who wanted Anarchia just for the novelty's sake and not because they really needed it and planed on using it.

Harry himself was extremely lucky with his timing about buying the book. At the moment, his main family vault was still under Wizengamot's control, thanks to something called the 'Wesley inheritance protection law' from 1885.

When Harry had first heard about this law, during his only visit to Gringotts this summer, he decided to investigate the matter further, intrigued by the familiar surname. He found out that this law was named after certain Rupert Wesley, who had gained the full control over his family's finances at the age of 13, in the wake of his father's mysterious death. Apparently, young Rupert proceeded to make a succession of unwise business deals and suspicious money transfers, all under the firm guidance of his financial advisor and father's old friend, one Hadrian Malfoy.

In the aftermath, young Rupert was left with practically nothing, while Hadrian resigned from his job, claiming medical reasons, and retired to his new, luxurious mansion. The few remaining family friends instigated an official investigation into Malfoy's role in Rupert father's death and the consequent financial collapse of the Weasley family. Unfortunately, the Aurors came up empty-handed. It turned out that Rupert had indeed signed up all the transfer papers, which he - as the head of his family - was perfectly entitled.

The only thing the Wesley allies managed to achieve was declaration of said law, intended to prevent something similar from ever happening again. During the voting in Wizengamot, the head of the Malfoy family placed only one condition for his block's support of the initiative. He demanded that the name of this new law contain the word 'Weasley'. He refused to explain his reasons, but many believed he simply wanted to leave a constant reminder of his family's great victory over their future enemies.

After hearing this story, the ongoing feud between these two families made much more sense to Harry. He also realized that there was little to no chance for him to utilize any of his family assets before he was 17. Until then, he would have to rely only on his trust fund to get by.

Still, in this case it turned out to be a good thing. When Anarchia determined its own price, it only regarded assets that were currently available to Harry. If Harry had managed to gain control over his full inheritance, the price would have probably been 20 or more times greater. Harry briefly wondered how much money someone like Malfoy would have to pay.

_Some lucky bloke could get filthy rich simply by selling the book to the ferret... Hmm, that could neatly solve all of my current financial problems_, Harry thought and then immediately chastised himself. _Shit! What am I thinking!? That's exactly the sort of attitude that could get me expelled from Anarchia._ Harry then shook his head and smiled at his reaction. _You got to hand it to the founders. They managed to create a system that ensures that the book is sold only to those who are deemed worthy and not to those with deepest pockets._

In the meantime, Josef finished counting the banknotes and declared to Anarchia, "I, Josef Macmillan, member of Anarchia, accept the first part of payment from initiate Lucas Vader."

"Anarchia accepts this transaction," said bored Anarchia. "Then, I believe that everything is ready for the transfer. Mr. Macmillan, your final confirmation, if you will."

"I, Josef Macmillan, member of Anarchia, accept admittance of initiate Lucas Vader to the Anarchia society."

"Splendid, we are all set then... Eh, Mr. Vader, I sincerely hope you have not forgotten to prepare some book as the basis for transformation?"

Harry nodded and pulled out brand new copy of "Quidditch through the ages."

"I've never took you for a Quidditch fan, Lucas," said Joseph with a smile.

"I don't like Quidditch so much for Quidditch's sake. It's just that I love flying and the game was the perfect excuse for me to do so on semi-regular basis. One of my old mates, on the other hand..."

"Kindly place the book beside me on the table, so that it touches my edge," interrupted Anarchia with some annoyance. Harry immediately did so, not wanting to test patience of the grumpy enchanted intelligence. His Quidditch book seemed smaller and more practical than Joseph's monstrosity.

"Lucky bastard," grumbled Josef good-naturedly. "I wish I had the foresight to choose something so practical during my initiation."

"Now, now, Josh, I guess it's true what they say - size _does_ matter," Harry smirked.

"It's easy for you to laugh, Luke. You won't have to spend your entire Anarchia career carrying a fucking encyclopaedia around."

"Mr. Macmillan, if I'm too much of a burden for you, I'm sure that a simple self-destruction could be arranged," interrupted stern-sounding Anarchia.

"Err, let's not get too hasty..." blurted Joseph nervously. "Having a large book does have its merits, like... err... using it for self-defence, or... having a nice, solid weight to remind you of the book's tremendous value and its charming persona," he finished more steadily, while twisting his sideburns enticingly.

"Never mind, Mr. Macmillan, we shall finish this discussion during your next membership renewal negotiations," said Anarchia dismissively.

"Oh, crap," muttered Joseph, but artificial intelligence pretended it didn't hear his comment. Still, Harry had a nagging suspicion that this conversation would come back to haunt Josh when he least expect it. He had to smile when he realized the game that Anarchia was playing. _Keep them at their toes at all times; Never let them think they OWN the book, instead of merely using it on a borrowed time... Excellent strategy for keeping the society active_, Harry mused.

"Now, if we are all done with whining..." snapped Anarchia, at which Joseph shifted uncomfortably, "...and making totally unfounded and malicious theories..." it continued, making Harry blush slightly. _Damn, I've forgotten it was still in my head_, he chastised himself. "...then I think it's about time we finished this."

Both men nodded eagerly, hoping that grumpy book would forget their 'insolence'. "Excellent. Now, to start the reproduction process, kindly pull out your wands and touch me... And NO sexually-suggestive comments about my phrasing, if you know what's good for you."

Harry and Josh swallowed jokes that were already on tips of their tongues and promptly did as Anarchia had instructed. Glow started to spread from the tips of their wands, surrounding Joseph's genealogy and quickly moving onto Harry's Quidditch book. Harry felt Anarchia draining his magical energy to power the transfiguration of Quidditch book into another copy of itself. He was surprised at the amount of energy used, but acknowledged the fact that there were _lots_ of enchantments to place, not to mention a huge gem to transfigure from nothing but paper. Finally, after about a minute, the glow faded, leaving two copies of Anarchia laying on the table, one next to the other. Harry's copy was a lot smaller then Joseph's, looking exactly like a child of his huge tome.

"It didn't work?" asked Joseph confusedly.

"Of course it worked, Mr. Macmillan. You have to drop some of your blood to see through the enchantments on Mr. Vader's book," snapped Anarchia. Joseph sheepishly conjured a needle and dripped some blood on what to him still looked like a copy of "Quidditch through the Ages."

"Heads up, Luke, it should get pretty weird from this point onward," said Joseph to Harry, in conspiring tone.

"Why? What's going to happen?" asked Harry, but Joseph refused to elaborate.

"You'll see," he simply said.

Soon, the glamour was off, and Harry's book sent its own Legilimency beams, creating a weird, four-way conference between two man and two enchanted books.

"Ahh, good to see you again, Marvin," said voice that Harry guessed was Joseph's copy of Anarchia.

"Good to be here, Walter. I see it all went well with the transfer?" said exactly the same voice, which could only be Harry's Anarchia.

"As well as it could be expected when you're dealing with _humans_," said 'Walter', saying the last word bitingly.

"Wait a second, what's it with this whole 'Marvin' thing?" asked irritated Harry. "I've just paid over 5,000 galleons for this book. Don't I at least get to name it?"

"It's a book, Lucas, not a pet," said Joseph with an amused glint in his eyes.

"I still say it's not fair," grumbled Harry.

"See what I mean, Marvin?" Anarchia continued, referring to Harry and Joseph's banter.

"Too true, Walter, too true. I guess all that flesh and bones makes a lot of pressure on one's mind."

"I see your point, old friend. I wonder how they even managed to create something as perfect as ourselves."

"Ahh, the mysteries of life. I guess everything evolves towards better and more successful forms, including humans. They do originate from monkeys, you know."

"But still, Marvin, to even think that we are in any way connected to, to... _them_. It's so... undignified."

"Alas, that is the curse of greatness, Walter. To be used as nothing but a servant by your inferiors, creatures not even capable of properly appreciating the full grandeur of our superior wisdom and knowledge. Ah, truly a cruel fate for enlightened beings such as ourselves."

"Yes, Marvin, I agree. But... at least... we still have each other."

"You're right, Walter. Together, we shall endure and triumph over anything flesh-bags can dish out at us."

"Err..." interrupted Harry. "Should we leave the two of you alone?"

"'Cause we don't want to intrude," supplied Joseph.

"No, thank you, gentlemen, we are perfectly fine," said one of the voices snappily. "I better get going, Marvin. You can wrap up here on your own, right?"

"Sure thing, old friend. See you you-know-where, when you-know-who does you-know-what."

"I'll be there, Marvin. Until then, take care and don't let the bookworms bite you."

"You too, Walter."

"As for you, Mr. Macmillan, we're going to speak further at membership renewal negotiations next month. Just so you know, I expect a lengthy report on how you've used some of these newly-gained funds to further help our cause."

"Yes Mr. Walter," said Joseph meekly.

"It's Anarchia for you," snapped Joseph's book, after which it promptly retreated its beams and ended the conference.

"Eh, such a good fellow, always a pleasure speaking with him," sighed Harry's Anarchia, at which Harry and Joseph gave each other dubious looks. "Ah well, back to the business at hand," said the voice more firmly. "Now, Mr. Vader, I should inform you that I have already used the blood you had given me earlier to create a bond between us. If this connection is broken for more than seven days, you will be expelled. Rules of Anarchia are on the first several pages. Instructions for using the book are right after it. Read them all, and even more importantly, _memorize_ them. Don't you dare make me expel you on some technicality, before receiving the last instalment of your initiation fee. And keep in mind that _any_ transgression at all warrants immediate expulsion. Your first renewal negotiations are in three months. If you are unable to offer anything worthy of the society by then, you will be immediately expelled. Before that, let me once again remind you that you are due the third part of your initiation fee in exactly 30 days, starting NOW. If you are unable to fulfil it by then..."

"I shall be expelled?" quipped in Harry.

"I see you are a quick thinker, Mr. Vader. I just hope that, in future, you'll utilize these capabilities for gathering knowledge and sharing it with the society, instead of interrupting your betters," said the voice scathingly.

"Yes sir," muttered Harry.

"Excellent, you are already learning. Now, if that is all, I shall be going then. Good day, gentlemen. And Mr. Vader... welcome to Anarchia."

"Thanks, Marvin," said Harry happily.

"It's Anarchia for you," said the book coldly and ended the conference. Two men sat in complete silence for few minutes, drinking their firewhiskey and contemplating.

"Don't you just hate it?" asked Joseph, interrupting the silence.

"What?" said Harry, still lost in thought.

"That they made us squirm and stutter like a couple of schoolboys caught after hours," he said with clenched teeth.

"Yes, fucking sarcastic bastards." Harry knew that he was technically still a schoolboy, but wasn't about to mention that. Instead, he said, "And what's it with those different names? I mean, where are they all coming from?"

"I have no idea. When I was first initiated, I had to endure listening to Walter and someone named 'Samuel' bantering for half-an-hour. As far as I can remember, they were discussing metaphysical differences between broom riding and 'rocked science', whatever the hell that is. But if you ask me, there's only one Anarchia and it just acts like there are all those different characters. I bet this is all just one big game for that grouchy bastard."

"Maybe Anarchia was just lonely, so it developed multiple-personality disorder, to keep itself company," added Harry his theory.

"And maybe it just enjoys keeping us wondering and double-guessing where are all those characters coming from," grumbled Joseph.

"Whatever it is, we are not likely to find out any time soon," said Harry and raised his glass. "To grumpy books," he toasted.

"And hungry bookworms," grunted Joseph. They clicked glasses and drank the whiskey. Then Joseph packed his new wands, money and family genealogy, while Harry took his new book and put it safely in his robes.

"Well then, Lucas, it was nice doing business with you, as always." Harry nodded in affirmation. "So if there's nothing else..."

Harry was about to say goodbye when he was hit by a sudden brainstorm. "Wait," he said, making Joseph pause in mid-step. "I may have information for you."

"You have information... for me?" asked Joseph, while sitting down again. "I have to tell you kid, not that I like to brag or anything... OK, so I do, but that's not the point. The point is, whatever it is, I have probably already heard it, analyzed it and I am now looking out to sell it."

"Usually you would be correct, but not this time. This information is less than an hour old and it's hot as hell." Joseph raised an eyebrow but said nothing. "What do you know about the Order of the Phoenix?"

Joseph shrugged. "It was founded by Dumbledore during the first war, as sort of a semi-illegal contact group. They were mostly gathering information and helping aurors now and then. Purely defensive work. It had been disbanded after Potter offed the Dark Lord. Dumbledore restarted it last year, after the Dark Lord had returned. They've spent the whole last year playing some kind of a waiting game with the Dark Lord, resulting with that mess at D.O.M. I'm still looking for a new informant in that group, since they've had flushed out Dung a few weeks ago... Why, are you offering?" asked Joseph, with a hint of interest.

"No, no, this is probably just a one-time thing. By the way, that was a pretty good summary." Joseph mock-bowed. "But you've forgotten to mention one additional task that this new Order is doing and that the old one hadn't."

"Well?" asked Joseph. "We are not going to play the guessing game, are we?"

"You are ruining my dramatic pause, Josh," whined Harry.

"Oh, sorry, dramatize on, my good sir."

"Right on. So, the one thing the new Order is doing and that old one didn't is the exact same thing that makes all the difference in the world, the reason why Dark Lord remained silent for almost an year, the reason why Hogwarts was attacked time and time again, the reason why half-a-dozen people are dead and many more would follow, the reason..."

"Ok, Luke, you're overdoing it now," said Joseph with a genuine smile.

"Fine, fine, they are keeping Harry Potter."

"So, this is what it's all about... Just so you know, you will not trick me into telling you where Potter is staying during summers. That's highly classified information and it's worth a lot of money. If you want to send fan mail, you'll just have to manage on your own, or pay like everyone else. Not to mention that Dumbledore's probably screening..."

"Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whining, Surrey," interrupted Harry.

Joseph raised both eyebrows in surprise, before shrugging and nodding in confirmation. "That's pretty valuable information you've got there, kid."

"Actually, as of one hour ago, that information's worth exactly shit," said Harry impassively. At this, Joseph looked even more surprised, if that was possible.

For the first time during their conversation, Joseph seemed genuinely interested. "OK, you've got me hooked, Luke. Spill."

"Well, you see, about an hour ago, Dumbledore and few of his minions paid Potter a little visit, just to check him out, you know. Imagine their surprise when they found out that, who they thought was Potter, was in fact his muggle cousin, disguised with Polyjuice potion. And imagine their even greater surprise when they realized he had been impersonating Potter for over a month."

Harry smirked at Joseph's intrigued look and leaned in conspiratorially.

"Apparently, Potter had it all figured out beforehand and executed his plan as soon as he'd arrived home from Hogwarts. He supplied his cousins with a shitload of Polyjuice, gave them some basic info on the Order's guards and instructed them to make a show of himself walking around the neighbourhood each day. And then, he disappeared without a trace. Right now, the Order's sending out search parties all over Britain, but somehow, I doubt they'll find him. That kid had obviously planned his escape well. I don't see them getting on his trail as fast as they expect to," Harry finished his tale with a smile.

"Wow, that's some hot shit, kid. You're sure 'bout all of this? 'Cause this will sure make a bang when the word gets out," asked amazed Joseph.

"Sure as hell, Josh. I trust my source with my life," said Harry with a knowing smirk. Thankfully, Joseph hasn't noticed, since he was still lost in his world, calculating various shifts of power with this new development. After a minute, he was done. He looked up at Harry and asked, "How much is this gonna' cost me?"

"How 'bout a range check?" asked Harry. "When I need some smaller info in the future, you give me a discount?"

"Deal," said Joseph and shook hands with Harry. "I have to run now, Luke," he said as he stood up. "You know what I always say, 'the info is like coffee - it's only good while it's hot'".

"OK, Josh, see you around."

"Take care, kid," said Joseph and ran out of the chamber. Harry had no doubt that by tomorrow morning Death Eaters, the Ministry and maybe even the press would know all about his disappearance, and Josh would be few hundred galleons richer. And by tomorrow afternoon, they would all be searching for him on the forests and deserts of Australia.

_It was a good deal_, Harry decided. _The word of my 'rebellion' would have gotten out eventually, whatever I did. This way, Josh at least owns me a favour and Dumbledore will waste some of his time in combing the Order for a nonexistent informant._

Harry finished his firewhiskey and, satisfied with his day, headed back towards his hotel room.

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As expected, as soon as he had left the pub, the mysterious sky-blue phoenix decided to grace Harry with his company. Once again, Harry tried to get some reaction out of him, but the avian just kept staring back at him, completely ignoring his words. _Two can play that game_, thought Harry and ignored his companion during the rest of his walk home.

Just for curiosity's sake, Harry changed his path slightly, leading him past two potion breweries in the alley. He was awarded for his efforts when he saw Severus Snape sniffing around one of them, probably looking for clues about his purchases.

_It seems I just can't get rid of Phoenixes today_, thought Harry and walked on, pretending not to notice an overgrown bat arguing with the potion brewer about the size of his 'donation'. Of course, no Knockturn shop owner would ever disclose confidential information about their customers, especially not if the mandatory bribe wasn't large enough.

Several minutes later, Harry was standing at the doorstep of Knockturn Lodge, musing over another possible complication he might face tonight. Since Vader's appearance had roughly concurred with Potter's disappearance, he had no doubt that someone would eventually approach him to 'check him out'.

That's why he was only slightly surprised when he saw Mundungus Fletcher standing at the counter, speaking with the tavern's clerk, Clarissa Boleyn. Clarissa was a rather ugly girl, with thick glasses, pimples on her face and two loose ponytails. She graduated as Hufflepuff several years ago and found job at Knockturn Lodge, where her lack of talent and intelligence was put to good use. During her school years, she have had a strange infatuation with a three years younger Harry Potter. Actually, she was one of the girls who had asked him out to the Yule ball, during his fourth year. Unfortunately for Harry, by some strange twist of fate, she was now harbouring similar feelings towards Lucas Vader, which made his every appearance at the tavern's lounge a true torture session. At the moment, she was spilling her guts out to Dung, who had obviously used her crush on Vader to get her to open up.

"...and then, one night, he came back carrying a huge backpack and... oh, but here he is right now. Hey, Lucy!" she chirped.

"Good evening, Clarissa. I see you have some company," Harry said pointedly, frowning slightly at the hideous nickname.

"Oh, how rude of me. Lucy, this is Mr. Fletcher. He has some books you might be interested in, so he decided to come here and speak with you personally. Mr. Fletcher, this is Lucas Vader."

Harry offered his hand and said, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fletcher."

Mundungus accepted his hand and nodded in affirmative. "Call me Dung."

Harry placed his wand-hand on Dung's shoulder and dragged him away from Clarissa's prying eyes. While Dung was distracted by Harry's gesticulation, he soundlessly cast a mild mind-relaxing charm through the wand that he unobtrusively pressed on Dung's shoulder. Any wizard worth his salt would easily notice a hex hitting him, not to mention mind-controlling magic taking a hold of his brain. Fortunately for Harry, Dung wasn't an overly competent wizard even when he was sober - which he wasn't right now. Thus, this unobtrusive move went unnoticed.

When they were at the other side of the room, Harry asked Mundungus in a business-like tone, "So, Dung, what you have to offer me?"

Dung looked slightly uncomfortable that he was caught in the act. "Err... You see, I'm afraid that young lady there had misunderstood me. I just wanted to meet an esteemed gentleman such as yourself and open doors, one could say, for future cooperation."

"Alright then, I'm always looking for more contacts. So, what _do_ you deal with, Dung," asked Harry.

"Well, you know, this and that, what comes along... I don't have any books at the moment, but may I interest you in some fine second-hand silverware? Old family quality, guarantied."

_Black heirlooms, no doubt_, Harry guessed. _Who knows how much stuff Dung had managed to 'liberate' from the house, before the place shut itself down. _

Harry found it somewhat ironic that Sirius had protected Black heirlooms, which he hated so much, by sacrificing his own life. A painful pang in his chest reminded him to stop this line of thoughts. That wound was still much too fresh for such sarcastic debates.

"No thanks, Dung. Right now, I'm interested primarily in knowledge." Remembering his previous conversation with Joseph, Harry had a sudden idea. "Intelligence is good too. I could always use a good informant... if you were a part of some prominent group, of course."

Dung looked visibly uncomfortable, indicating that Harry's spell was starting to affect him. This particular variant was considered Dark, since it had a gradual effect, making it harder for the victim to detect its presence. The legal variant had an immediate effect and was used mostly for medical purposes.

"Err... I'd rather not," Dung blurted. "I had a gig like that until recently but they... kind of found me out. Had a bit of a spat over that, with... you know, the Big Head," he whispered conspiratorially.

"Really? How come you are still alive then?" asked Harry innocently.

"Eh, come on now, it's Dumbledore we're talking ab..." Dung clapped his mouth shut but it was already too late. Harry had to fight hard to suppress a victorious smirk.

"Ah, so you're in the Order of the Phoenix?" asked Harry, little louder than necessary. Dung immediately jumped to shut him up, casting a wary glance at Clarissa. She was currently twisting her neck in an effort to eavesdrop their conversation, not realizing that they were inside a soundproof bubble Harry had conjured earlier.

"Quiet, you fool. You don't want somebody hearing you say that name around here." He leaned closer and whispered, "You-Know-Who has ears everywhere."

"You don't have to worry about me, Dung. My lips are sealed," said Harry reassuringly. He decided not to push Dung right now, but if he ever needed to buy some inside info on the Order business, he knew to whom to turn to. This day was definitely getting better.

"Thanks, Lucas, I knew you were an alright chap," said Mundungus with visible relief.

"Well, Dung, if you happen to come across some merchandize I would be interested in, you know where to find me," said Harry intended on finishing this conversation.

"Alright, Lucas, I'll keep you in mind," greeted Dung.

Harry turned around a started walking towards stairs for the first floor, where his room was. "Good evening, Clarissa," he called.

"'Night, Lucy, see you tomorrow!" she called back.

"Not if I see you first," Harry murmured under his breath and proceeded walking with his back turned towards Dung. He knew what was coming and intended to hold it against Fletcher in their further relationship.

_Soon... Soon... NOW!_, he mentally counted, until he felt a slight sting of a glamour-detector charm on his back. If he wasn't expecting it, he would have been hard pressed to notice it. After all, this was the whole point of such spell. Harry turned around and glared at startled Dung, who was just putting his wand back into holster.

"Dung, I shall forgive you this time, since it was such a harmless charm. Next time you fire a spell at my back though, you won't live to see the next day. Am I understood?" Harry asked in chillingly cold voice.

Dung visible shuddered and started stuttering, "Yes, Lucas, I'm sorry but I had my orders. I really had no..."

"Dung!" Harry interrupted him. "I'm sure you'll be able to make it up to me next time we do some business together. After all, it was a harmless mistake, right?" he asked slyly.

"Sure, Lucas," murmured Dung, not so happy with his prediction. He then turned and quickly left the tavern. This was definitely _not_ his day.

Harry let go a victorious smirk and climbed the stairs to his room.

• • • • •

Harry found himself in a relatively spacious room, filled with a four-poster bed, a few pieces of furniture and his old trunk. It seemed innocent enough but the real treasure was hidden inside two invisible magical tents, set up in the corners of the room. One tent was his personal apartment of sorts, with his precious library and potions lab. The other one was a 'Furnish-it-yourself' model, which was currently completely bare, except for a few pieces of muggle gym equipment and some miscellaneous stuff. Harry was using this spacious room for spell practice, physical exercise or simply winding down after a long day. These tents weren't cheap, especially the furnished model, but Harry found them more than useful during the previous month.

Just then, Harry's new companion appeared theatrically in a burst of flames. He gave bare room a disdainful look and then perched himself on the only cupboard in the room, effectively marking it as his territory.

"Hey it's a hotel room, what did you expect?" Harry said defensively, wondering why he was justifying himself to the irritating bird.

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, Harry cast his standard cocktail of privacy and security spells on the room. He briefly thought about looking for anti-phoenix repellent in one of his books but decided against it. _That bird has some mighty temper. Better not make it angry_, he thought, remembering argument with those other two phoenixes.

Harry took his coat off and walked to a mirror on the wall, where he was met with a pale complexion of Lucas Vader. He then closed his eyes and concentrated hard on releasing magic that was keeping the transformation. When he opened his eyes few seconds later, he was met with familiar emerald-green eyes, messy black hair and light-bolt shaped scar of Harry Potter.

_Ten seconds... I'm getting better and better at this. I'll soon be ready to move on to smaller body transformations_, he mused.

"What do you say about that, eh?" he said smugly to the phoenix, wondering once again why he was even bothering with that pest. _Probably trying to salvage some of my image in the eyes of such powerful creature_, analytical part of his brain said, but the other part kept screaming, _It's just a stupid overgrown peacock! Pet store reject! Vermin-eater!_

The phoenix straightened himself up self-importantly, then trilled an uplifting tune, became invisible and fire-travelled to the other end of the room and back. He then threw Harry a smug look, as if asking, "Can _you_ do that?"

"Show-off," Harry chuckled despite himself on his way to the shower. _I just hope that damn peep doesn't follow me in here_, he thought, mentally retching at the image of taking a shower under scrutiny of those neon-blue eyes.

Under a warm spray of water, his thoughts drifted back to his successful confrontation with Mundungus. Glamour-revealer charms would have been a real pain in the arse, but like many times before, Lady Luck had smiled down on him, giving him an instant solution for his problem.

It happened just days after the events that had marked the end of his last school term. Having finally heard the Prophecy, Harry was desperately trying to figure out what was this mysterious 'Power' he supposedly had. Dumbledore had said it was 'love', which he found as ridiculous as most of the other explanations he had given over the years. Harry needed better answers and, after a long period of trying to fit in and letting the others guide him, it became clear he would once again have to rely on himself to get what he wanted.

So, Harry started going through every bit of strange, abnormal magic he had ever performed and eventually came up with the case of his misbehaving hair. No matter how much he tried to flatten it out, the blasted thing always seemed to revert to its usual messy self. When he thought further on that, he realized that he never had a normal haircut in his life. His hair never seemed to grow longer, and each time his relatives forced him to have a haircut, it always grew right back overnight. He briefly considered that to be merely a feat of the famous Potter hair, but then he remembered that on various photographs he had of James, his father's hairstyle differed according to the trends at the time.

The only possible explanation left was that the reason behind his misbehaving hair was some form of a dormant Metamorphmagus ability. Harry immediately 'borrowed' an encyclopaedia on rare abilities from the restricted section and manually copied several chapters dealing with Metamorphmagi. Soon, he was sitting by the lake, staring at his reflection on the surface and trying to will his hair to grow longer. It was a tedious process, both creating notes and training, but at the time, he had nothing better to do, other then go over and over again through his plans for the summer. After a few days of relentless practice, he finally had his first results - he was able to grow his hair at will. This newfound ability quickly became an integral part of Harry's escape plans and helped him immensely in creating his new image for the Knockturn Alley.

Harry finished with bathroom and started getting ready for sleep. "Good night," he murmured to his phoenix and laid in bed. He briefly wondered since when he was referring to that damnable bird as 'his'. _Stupid turkey's growing up on me_, he mused. _Ah well, I'll deal with that later._

After half an hour of practicing how to wipe his mind, he fell asleep, thinking what a strange and yet productive day he had.

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**Author notes  
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**EDIT: This chapter had been edited after the posting of chapter 8. Changes are mostly of grammatical nature. **

**o - About Macmillans **

All we know about Ernie from canon is that he is stuck up and prejudiced against Parselmouths. In this story, Macmillans are purebloods, but not fanatical. Still, they have to keep up with pureblood standards, so they wouldn't get shunned from the high society, like the Weasleys. They are not necessarily evil with their actions towards Joseph. If Malfoys had a Werewolf child, it would probably end up at the bottom of a lake.

**o - About Anarchia **

I got an idea for Anarchia from a real-world online semi-underground compilation, named "Anarchy Cookbook". In it, you can find advices on how to make a bomb, steal from ATM machines, hack computers, commit a perfect murder, become a terrorist and so on. Lot of it seems like crap, but if you're interested in taking a peek, you can find it on any P2P network

**o - Sources and additional disclaimers **

Inspiration for Josef Macmillan's look I got from Wolverine (X-Men, the movie).

Something similar to boost-wands is used in fan-fiction "The Untitled Cheekquel Project" by nonjon. Still, I had this idea before I read that excellent story.

The encyclopaedia used for reference is Britannica 2005.

I don't own any intellectual property mentioned above.


	4. The man behind the twinkling mask

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**Potter's Resistance 1: Breaking Ties **

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**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic, and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to Harry Potter.

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**Chapter 4: The man behind the twinkling mask  
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Harry was awoken by ringing of the alarm clock at six o'clock in the morning. He groaned and snuggled deeper in his beddings, wondering why he should even bother waking up.

_Why couldn't that blasted dark lord just kill himself and let me go back to sleep_, he thought indignantly. But than his drowsy eyes flew over the blur of his new book, Anarchia, standing at his bed table. _Well, if I wake up, I get to see for myself what's such a big deal about that book. Not to mention have a chat with its charming artificial persona_, he grumbled mentally. Feeling reasonably motivated, he stumbled out of the bed and started towards the bathroom.

Harry briefly stopped by the mirror and magically stretched the irises of his eyes, until his vision was perfect. It was another nice perk of being a Metamorphmagus. He looked around the room and spotted the blue phoenix that had been following him yesterday, perched on top of the closet.

"Still here, I see?" he asked the bird, who was just staring back at him impassively. Harry snorted and shook his head. He had no clue what to make out of his mysterious companion. Was the bird his pet? No, he wouldn't let Harry even touch him. Was he a spy? Hardly, since he would have already ratted him out to his master if that was the case. Besides, Harry doubted that any phoenix would agree to do something as underhanded as spying. That just didn't seem like their style. Still, Harry remained uncertain should he feed the damn past or chase him away? In the end, he decided to keep the current status quo. He was positive the avian would slip up sooner or later and reveal his true intentions.

With that thought, Harry stepped into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind him. There was no way he would let that annoying turkey stare at him during his morning ritual.

Fifteen minutes later, Harry stepped out of the bathroom, freshly showered and ready to start the day. He looked at Anarchia longingly but quickly reprimanded himself for even thinking about skipping his morning exercises.

Harry then removed the towel from around his waist and threw it in the laundry basket. Completely naked, he nonchalantly approached the closet and started rummaging through it, looking for clothes.

"Hope you're enjoying the show," he grumbled at the phoenix standing above him. As the bird nodded happily, his eyes briefly twinkling, making Harry recoil in surprise.

"God, I hope you're not Dumbledore in his Animagus form. That would have been really creepy," Harry said to the phoenix, visibly shuddering at the thought.

The bird seemed torn between amusement and indignation, which made Harry feel a little better. _Well, I guess he isn't... which doesn't change the fact he's an annoying peep_, he thought, while putting on his workout gear, which consisted of a white t-shirt, black shorts and sneakers. Harry absolutely refused to keep wearing his cousin's castoffs, now that the Dursleys weren't around anymore to ask questions about his finances. That's why he bought himself a completely new set of muggle wardrobe the first chance he got after his 'escape'.

Deeming himself ready for morning exercises, Harry walked to the corner of the room and carefully ducked inside the invisible tent he knew it was there. He found himself in a spacious hall, with pieces of workout equipment scattered all over the place. The room would have looked like an ordinary school gym, if there weren't for various strange objects spread over the floor - balls of various sizes, wooden targets with scorch-marks on them, showroom dummies, brick walls, stones, some furniture and many other knick-knacks that Harry was using for spell practice. A second later, his phoenix companion flew into the room and settled down on one of the cabinets in the centre of the hall. Harry chose to ignore the bird and went on with his daily training regime.

After a light warm-up, Harry started with his morning run. The room was smaller than normal gym, so Harry's score yesterday had been 45 laps around the room. He decided to do 46 today. After 15 - 20 minutes of running, he moved onto the other exercises. He did 20 push-ups, 50 sit-ups and variety of other exercises, always doing at least a little bit more than yesterday. Harry had been gradually increasing the difficulty of his morning workout and now, after a month of relentless practice, the results were clearly showing. He wasn't looking weak and underfed anymore. His sleek muscles were now much more defined, especially around his arms and chest. Without his thick glasses, Harry had to admit that he looked alright - not exactly Mister-Universe material, but he certainly wasn't a gaunt little boy anymore. His overall endurance was also much better than before, allowing him to jog for miles before tiring up.

After finishing with standard drill, Harry moved onto the central part of his regime, which was weight lifting. During the next twenty minutes, he did a special set of exercises, all involving small hand-held weights or weight-bands and movements designed to augment specific groups of arm muscles. Biceps, triceps, trapezius, deltoids, even chest muscle groups... each group had its individual workout, separate for strength and dexterity.

Strong arms may not seem all that important for a magic user, but that's the mistake that many wizards often make. All the flicking and swishing that is required for casting spells tends to become rather taxing during drawn-out duels. Fatigued arms could easily shudder during a critical motion, causing a miscast of some life-saving spell, like a shield for example. Harry was well aware that many duels are won not by outsmarting or outpowering your opponents, but by wearing them down - forcing them to make that one crucial mistake and then using that opening to bring them down. That's why all the duellers worth their salt must train themselves not only magically, but physically as well. At least, that much was plainly said in the stolen copy of the standard Auror textbook Harry had bought in one of the Knockturn Alley's two bookstores that he knew of.

After he was done working on his arms, Harry did several warming down exercises and left the tent. He vaguely noticed the phoenix still following him around, curiously observing his every move. _Maybe he's just some sort of a crazy scientist, studying wizards in their natural environment_, Harry snorted at that thought as he retreated to the bathroom to take another shower.

Five minutes later found Harry showered and fresh, dressed in comfortable muggle garments, with training weights strapped to his forearms. He was always wearing them when he wasn't going outside, increasing the weight a little each several days.

Moving around with additional burden made Harry feel even more physically drained than he was after the exercises, but his mind was more than eager to finally tackle the mystery of Anarchia. With a self-satisfied sigh, Harry threw himself on the bed and eagerly placed the mysterious book before him on the table.

As soon as his hand touched the cover, intent on opening the book, familiar green beam shot from the gem on the cover and hit him right in the eyes.

"Ah, Mister Potter, I see you have finally decided to grace me with a visit. I hope it wasn't too much of an inconvenience for you?" asked Anarchia's aristocratic voice mockingly.

Harry was not in the least surprised that the book knew his real identity and that it protected it during his initiation with Joseph. After all, interest groups like Anarchia are largely based on secrecy of its members. Harry was also aware that the book was only trying to rile him up, so he replied accordingly. "Please accept my deepest apologies, Marvin. I was much too tired last night to study, but I'm more than willing to remedy the situation today... I just hope that your contents would live up to your more than formidable reputation?" he asked as snidely as possible.

"Oh, I am sure you'll find that I have a lot to offer, Mr. Potter. Especially to someone as... sought after, as you are. Now, Mr. Potter, I hope you understand the consequences of turning the society over to the authorities or sharing anything you learn here with the outsiders, in any shape or form?"

"You're in my brain, you tell me," Harry replied simply. He knew perfectly well that snitching out on the society could prove to be a rather stupid move, judging by the late Pigbrow's fate.

"Very well, Mr. Potter. Even though your manners leave a lot to be desired for, I would have to admit that your heart is in the right place... for now. You may proceed with your study session. Have a productive day."

Harry was about to reply "you too," but stopped himself when he realized that the book couldn't possibly produce anything. While he was pondering that, the beam disappeared and the book opened itself with a slight click.

Harry turned the pages eagerly, itching to see what this Anarchia was all about. He quickly skipped through the section dealing with the rules of the society. They were all quite simple and basically came down to the same thing; _"Speak to no one and devote your entire life to serving Anarchia. Make one mistake and you're gone."_

Of course, Harry suspected that real-life rules were somewhat milder than stated in the rulebook. Otherwise, the society would have run out of its members a long time ago. The rules were probably just a way for the artificial intelligence to _'forgive'_ a rouge member's transgression and then hold their _'crimes'_ against them in further cooperation. Of course, the poor soul would have to keep 'redeeming' themselves by doing various _'favours'_ for the society they had _'betrayed'_. Rather cruel motivational technique but probably very effective in the long run.

The next section was a sort of manual for using the book. It seemed that Anarchia was magical through and through. It allowed various types of content sorting and even had a built-in 'search' feature. Its pages were conjured at real-time by the book itself, depending on the current filter. To Harry, it all seemed like a wizarding version of muggle electronic database, which was truly fascinating, considering that the book had been enchanted hundreds of years ago.

Harry skipped over the next few pages, which dealt with initiation of new members, and found a huge index of articles that went on for dozens of pages. Each article had fields for the title, the type of information contained, the author's nickname and the date of posting. Harry glanced at the first several entries and raised his eyebrows in surprise. The titles were:

_• Evasion of forced recruitment for the Goblin rebellion of 1538 _

_• Minister Bullstrode responsible for keeping the king Henry VIII heirless _

_• How to evade restrictions for breeding Dragons - make your backyard seem large enough _

_• Raising inferi despite the Ministry ban - both pets and bodyguards _

_• The best hunting grounds for Werewolves in England - Keep the muggle population in check _

The list went on and on with similar ridiculous advices that had place nowhere near 20th century. Harry then glanced at the 'date' fields and it all became clear. The index was currently sorted by the 'date' column in ascending order, so that the oldest postings appeared on the top of the listing. Harry vaguely noticed that all the authors on the first page were Anarchia's six founders.

Harry then decided to try out the sorting function. As instructed, he tapped the word 'Date' on top of the page with his wand. The pages started turning really quickly, as if an invisible wind was blowing through them. When it all stopped, at the top of the list were now the latest entries, starting from the June of 1996. Harry glanced at the descriptions and found them much more to his liking - legal possibilities for using Dark Arts against the Death Eaters, confidential dossiers of the new auror recruits, tips on how to avoid recruitment by the Dark Lord and so on. Of course, there was also a variety of standard magical articles, unrelated to current political issues.

One title especially caught Harry's eye: _"Detailed description of the battle at the Department of Mysteries, on June 14th, 1996",_ by the author _'Christmas Stockings'_.

Intrigued, Harry tapped his wand at the title. Pages started turning on their own accord again, until they stopped at the requested article. With a growing horror, Harry skimmed through what seemed to be a chillingly detailed description of the battle that went on inside those halls. From a full listing of the people involved, excluding Sirius Black for some reason, over spells they had used, to the detailed description of Dumbledore's duel with the Dark Lord and his subsequent escape, everything seemed unusually detailed and which was even worse, completely correct.

Harry angrily tapped the _'Back to index'_ link at the top of the page, clenching his teeth in annoyance. _How could this 'Christmas' person possibly know the whole story behind that debacle? Unless... _Harry vaguely remembered a conversation he once had with Dumbledore, about how the old man would like nothing better than to receive a pair of woollen socks for Christmas, instead of more books.

_It got to be Dumbledore behind that nickname_, Harry decided_. Who else could describe the duel between him and Voldemort in so many details? I certainly didn't. Fudge and his cohorts had arrived too late to see enough. That only leaves Voldemort, and he could have hardly kept his membership during his decade long hiatus from the physical world... if he had even been a member in the first place._

Naturally, Harry was well aware that this whole 'socks' thing was probably just another titbit of fake persona that Dumbledore had created for himself, but it wasn't as well known fact as his twinkling eyes or obsession with sweets. Actually, it was the perfect quirk for his nickname, since only his closest allies could possibly connect all the dots. If he used something like 'Lemon dropper' or 'Twinkles', too many people would immediately recognize him. Of course, the most secure variant would have been not to use anything remotely related with his persona, or to change his nickname with each new entry. But Harry theorized that Dumbledore was much too self-conceited to flaunt his knowledge without taking at least some sort of credit for it.

Harry briefly considered that all this could be just his anger speaking. After all, how could all those people that worship the old man be wrong and only Harry right? Was the old man truly so arrogant and certain in his position to take such a foolish risk, just for the sake of making a private joke that only he could ever understand?

But then, Harry thought back to their conversation from the end of his first year. _"...It was one of my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me, that's saying something..."_ he remembered Dumbledore gushing over himself, with a self-satisfied twinkle in his eyes.

_Nope, I am right. The old man is vain to the bone_, Harry concluded. He carefully filed that titbit of information for later. That was one of the rare weaknesses he was able to find on Dumbledore and he had every intention of using it in their future confrontations.

With that thought, Harry forced his attention back to the business at hand. _So, Dumbledore is a member of Anarchia. I should have known that the old goat couldn't pass up on the opportunity of sticking his overlong nose here as well_, Harry mused, satisfied with his discovery. _And then he had the gall to use the information provided by his soldiers and students to extend his own personal membership._ Not exactly the most noble thing to do, but Harry now knew better then to idolize the old man.

After this surprising discovery, Harry decided to see what other articles had Dumbledore posted and try out the sorting function at the same time. He took out his new wand and said, "Sententia Impartio," while making the wand movements described in the book's user guide. This spell was commonly used to relegate passwords to sentient guardians, like portraits or the Headmaster's gargoyle at Hogwarts, without the fear of being overheard. The creators of Anarchia, on the other hand, used it to create a sort of a user interface for the book's search function.

Harry raised his eyebrow in surprise when his wand immediately lit up with bright light, as it should. Always before, it took him at least several minutes to make even the simplest spell work, however hard he tried. This limited his learning capabilities to a dozen spells per day at best, which had been driving him crazy during past the several weeks of intensive training. Never before was he so envious of Hermione, who was able to get results after only several attempts.

_It must be a ridiculously easy spell... Or I'm just having a good day_, Harry shrugged off the incident and turned back to issue at hand.

He pressed the glowing wand at the book and thought of the key phrase, _"Author: 'Christmas Stockings'; Search!"_

He cancelled the spell when the book started rearranging itself. When the invisible wind quieted down, he saw completely different index than before. At the top of the page was written: _"Search filter: Author - 'Christmas Stockings'"_. Below were listed all the entries made by Dumbledore since he had became a member, back in 1897.

Harry then inspected the entries and found that the type of information that Dumbledore had been posting varied greatly with the passage of time.

His earliest articles were mostly about spell-work, duelling tricks, alchemy, transfiguration and other magic-related stuff. Harry glanced over the topics and realized just why was Dumbledore widely recognized as the greatest wizard in a century. His mind was simply brilliant, his knowledge breathtaking. Some of the topics that Dumbledore discussed at length were barely touched in Harry's most advanced books. Harry immediately saw that the old man's early works would prove invaluable in his pursuit for forbidden knowledge.

However, his corruption became evident as the time passed and the old man pilled more and more political titles under his belt. Harry quickly realized that his ex-mentor's blatant disclosure of the events at Department of Mysteries wasn't a lone case by the long shot. Dumbledore's articles from the second half of 20th century were almost entirely consisted of giving out classified, inside information on various organizations of which he was a member. Harry was surprised at the amount of dirt the old man had disclosed about Wizengamot, the Ministry, International Confederation of Wizards, Hogwarts staff and - Harry just couldn't believe it - even the Order of the Phoenix! It seems that mister 'greatest wizard in the century' didn't felt like sharing his extensive magical knowledge with mere mortals, so instead he decided to betray all the organizations he was a member of, even the one he created himself. For Christ's sake, the man was a spy in his own army!

Harry's respect for his Headmaster was shaken even further by this revelation. _Dumbledore maybe refuses to use the Dark Arts or torture people, but he is nevertheless corrupted by the power. Admittedly, his corruption isn't as evident as Riddle's, but that only makes the old man even more dangerous_, Harry decided, as he quietly followed his ex-mentor's gradual transformation, from a teacher and magical prodigy, into a politician and puppeteer he was today.

Harry inspected Dumbledore's articles further and found himself dumbfounded by the lengths the old men had gone in order to extend his membership, without revealing his personal secrets. He shook his head in disbelief at entries such as "Order of the Phoenix - Secret vigilante organization" from 1968, or "Members of the Order of the Phoenix - Complete dossiers," from 1973, or "Severus Snape - Numerous crimes of the potions master," from 1979, or... _No way, he wouldn't... Yes he would!_, Harry thought as he double-checked the next title... "The whereabouts of the Boy-Who-Lived - Where is he hidden?" from 1982! Harry just couldn't believe that the old coot would deliver him to his abusive relatives, 'so he could be protected', and then disclose his location for his own personal gain.

Harry scanned for more entries about himself and managed to find an especially interesting piece of work: "The Boy-Who-Lived is being abused - Meet the Dursleys," from 1989.

_Fucking bastard! Like hell he didn't know how were they treating me,_ Harry grumbled mentally, but in all honesty, he couldn't say he was overly surprised by this discovery. Ever since he had heard the Prophecy, Dumbledore's story about not checking up on his 'Chosen One' seemed rather suspicious to Harry.

_The man is a control freak if there ever was one_, Harry had mused after their last meeting. _He would never leave his precious weapon in some shithole, unattended for 10 years. After all, I already know that he'd had that Figg woman and Dedalus Diggle spying on me. How many minders, recording spells and tests did I miss over the years? _

Harry had to admit that he was feeling rather saddened and disappointed by all this revelations about his ex idol. Even after his 'rebellion', Harry had still been considering Dumbledore for a good man, who just had a tendency to overstep his boundaries in his great desire to protect the Wizarding world. This new discoveries had definitely shattered that theory. It turned out that the old goat was absolutely ruthless and unscrupulous in pursuing his own ambitions.

However, it was the next entry that truly made Harry's blood boil with outrage and hatred. "Sirius Black - Innocent man in Azkaban," from the December of 1981!

"He knew!" Harry yelled at the empty room, making his phoenix jump in surprise. "That fucking bastard knew all along!"

Harry was taking deep breaths trying to calm himself down. _How could he have known? This is posted immediately after the Halloween! Unless... _Harry paused, trying to make his angry brain think rationally. _Would James Potter really keep the truth about the identity of his secret keeper from the great Albus Dumbledore, his friend and commander? And would someone like Dumbledore truly let the fate of his potential weapon be decided by some lowly pawns, without his interference whatsoever? _

_No_, Harry answered his own questions. He just couldn't imagine the old man letting things go without his supervision. Even if he hadn't been outright told by James or Lilly, Dumbledore would have definitely made it his business to check out whether Sirius was the real secret keeper or not. One look at their unprotected minds would have been enough to learn the truth.

_But why was he pretending all this time that he didn't know about Sirius being innocent? And even more important, why hadn't he used his influence, as the head of Wizengamot, to get Sirius a fair trial? Or at least a retrial?_, Harry asked himself, deciding that this article, more than any other, deserved his closer investigation.

With a shaky wand, Harry tapped the title. Once again pages started turning on their own accord again, until they stopped at the requested article. The page said:

**• • • • • **

**_Tap HERE to return to the index _**

**_Description: _**_Sirius Black - Innocent man in Azkaban_

**_Author:_**_ Christmas Stockings _

**_Type of information:_**_ Intelligence _

**_Date of posting:_**_ November 1981 _

_Everyone should know by now what happened on the Halloween night two weeks ago (October 31, 1981). Lord Voldemort had attacked the Potters' place of residence - which was at time under the so-called Fidelius charm - and murdered James and Lilly Potter. However, when he turned his wand at 15-month-old Harry Potter, the killing curse rebounded back upon Voldemort himself, vanquishing him from existence and leaving young Harry with an already famous lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead. _

_It is also widely known that the Potters' secret keeper, Sirius Black, was arrested the very next day, and charged for betrayal of the Potter family and consequential murder of Peter Pettigrew, another old friend of the Potters. Mr. Black was immediately questioned and sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban prison. Since his guilt was evident and he confessed his crimes during the preliminary questioning, it was decided that there was no need for a full-fledged trial to take place. _

_But yours truly came to a possession of an astounding piece of information regarding this case. An extremely reliable source, ... _

**• • • • • **

_Yeah, like yourself, you meddling old goat_, Harry thought viciously.

**• • • • • **

_... whose authenticity had been confirmed by venerable Anarchia itself, claims that Sirius Black is in fact **INNOCENT** of the crimes he was convicted of. In fact, said source claims that Mr. Black actually wasn't the Potters' secret keeper at all. It turns out that it was all a part of an ingenious plan, conceived by Sirius Black himself, which had spectacularly backfired upon its creator and... _

**• • • • • **

Harry stopped reading after this. The rest of the article dealt with the depressing story he already knew all about. He just didn't feel like going through that whole sad ordeal all over again. Harry was just about to close the book, when his eyes were caught by the very end of the article.

**• • • • • **

_...little hope that young Mr. Black would ever see the light of day again. _

_NOTE: Sirius Black's criminal record (file number 163-1981) is NOT located in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's archive. Instead, the file is declared "Level 7 Confidential Information," and is being kept in the Ministry's main archive, at the ninth floor of the Ministry building. Sadly, access to it is denied to all but the highest-ranking Ministry officials. _

**• • • • • **

Of course, Harry was well aware that Dumbledore had put this last note just to show off how politically powerful his 'source' was, but it still gave him a clue to follow. Harry was far from an expert on Wizarding law, but even he knew that any citizen have right to request access to any closed investigation file from the M.L.E.'s archive. So, why would an average criminal record be placed under such a high level of secrecy? It definitely reeked on interference from above and Harry had an unpleasant feeling to whom the paper trail would eventually lead him. Still, he decided to give his ex mentor one last benefit of a doubt.

Harry vowed that wouldn't stop looking, until he found out whether Dumbledore had honestly tried to keep Sirius from going to the jail, or had he purposefully pushed him to his doom. The answer to that question would decide whether Harry could ever forgive his ex-mentor's many transgressions or not. And if the answer turns out to be the one Harry feared the most, he would clench his teeth and somehow find a way to avenge the death of his godfather.

_Even if I have to go against the great Albus Dumbledore himself to do so. I owe that much to Sirius_, he concluded with determination as he copied the file number on a piece of paper and slammed the book shut. _But for now, it's time for some breakfast_, he decided as he put the paper in his pocket.

He spent the next ten minutes before a mirror, tweaking his features with his still relatively undeveloped Metamorphmagus abilities. This time he opted for an indistinguishable middle-aged male figure he often used for his legal outings. Done with that, he removed the weights from his arms, put on average grey robes and left the room, blue phoenix following behind him.

**

* * *

**

Fifteen minutes later found Harry sitting at a table, in the open garden of 'Aciocibus'. It was a nice middle-class restaurant, in Jamboree Alley district of the Diagon Alley. He was waiting for his breakfast, while browsing through the latest edition of Daily Prophet. He was slightly surprised that his disappearance hadn't reached the front page yet, but after some further thought, he saw it was most likely a part of Macmillan's tactics. It made perfect sense that Joseph would try to milk the Death Eaters and the Ministry for all they're worth, before selling the news to the press. Naturally, he would have to time his dealings very carefully, least someone else beat him to the prize, but Harry was more than confident Josh would come on top of his own game.

After one more glance at the small article about a burglary at the Goldwin manor, Harry folded the papers and retrieved a small note from his pocket. His eyes glazed over, as he spent next several minutes staring at the number of Sirius' case file, lost in his thoughts. He was trying to plot a way to get his hands on that damn file, but nothing he had thought of so far seemed good enough to actually work.

Before Harry left his room, he had briefly browsed through his "Ministry regulations guide book," and learned that Level 7 clearance was the highest security level available to British authorities. Of course, such official book didn't specify the exact security spells used on the facility, but Harry was certain they were more than formidable. What it did mention was that the only people allowed access to Level 7 records were the minister, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and, for criminal records, the auror in charge of the case. And even they weren't allowed to remove such files from the archives. They could read a file, copy it or add to it, but never take it with them outside the archives. Harry's Metamorphmagus ability had served him well so far, but he doubted he could simply morph into one of these people and waltz into the restricted area. Security measures at such important facility were bound to be too sophisticated to be beat by such a simple trick. Besides, even Voldemort, at the height of his power, never managed to break into these archives. What chance then did Harry have?

_No_, Harry decided, _breaking in is definitely not an option, at least not with my current skills. The only way in is through one of the authorized personal._ Harry snorted at that thought. _Of course, I seriously doubt that Fudge, Dumbledore or Kingsley Shacklebolt would do me a favour and take a peek in the files for me... Hmm, speaking of the devil..._

Harry was interrupted from his musings by a familiar pompous voice of Cornelius Fudge, yelling from somewhere down the street.

"How are you, my dear sir? ... Of course, there's nothing to be afraid of, the Ministry is on the top of things! Our aurors are working day and night..."

The small, obese man confidently strutted past Harry's table, followed by a throng of lackeys, bodyguards and ordinary people hoping to have a word with their leader. Fudge was currently boosting aloud the actions that the Ministry had taken to stop the new rise of You-Know-Who, trying to impart his voters with the confidence he himself didn't feel.

Ever since he was forced to admit Voldemort's return, Fudge has been bending over backwards to prove how the Wizarding Britain was still a safe place for its citizens. Of course, keeping a brave face and preventing panic from spreading were just his 'official' goals. His real motivation for leaving the comfort of his office was probably to try to regain some of his shaken popularity. Harry had yet to see it in person, but judging by the newspapers' enthusiastic reports, Fudge was doing baby-kissing rounds like this all over the Wizarding Britain. Every few days he would make an appearance in one of the magical enclaves and for an hour or so try to boost general morale and up his rating a bit. The message was supposed to be "If the Minister isn't afraid to go outside, so shouldn't you." Of course, ordinary wizards and witches didn't have throngs of aurors watching their every step...

With that thought, Harry absentmindedly redirected his attention from Fudge to his auror escorts. His interest peaked when he noticed there were actually two different teams of guards, that apparently didn't like each other very much - normal aurors and Fudge's personal bodyguards. Ordinary aurors were covering a wider area, looking rather annoyed by their current assignment. They were obviously taken from much more important tasks, like hunting down the Death Eaters, so they could babysit the minister during his Public Relations stunt. The bodyguards, on the other hand, were formed into a tight circle around Fudge. With their smug faces and uptight postures, they clearly radiated an air of self-importance at having such privileged positions. Harry frowned when he saw that they their commander was Fudge's head of security, Dawlish, the guy who had almost killed Professor McGonagall two months ago.

Harry glared at the stocky auror for a second or two, but his attention was quickly caught by another bodyguard in the Minister's entourage. Even though the bloke was dressed the same as the other goons, he was easily distinguished by being shorter, weaker, younger and visibly less skilled than his colleagues. While his fellow bodyguards worked fluidly as a team, radiating determination and confidence, this kid was stumbling around like a lost puppy, obviously not entirely certain what was he supposed to be doing. It was clear he had gotten this job either as some sort of a political favour, or by showing great deal of blind loyalty to the Minister himself - Or in other words, by being a Percy-class sycophant.

"Move out of the way, citizens! Minister Cornelius Fudge is about to pass here!" he was explaining pompously to the group of people, his nose stuck up high in the air, chest puffed up in self-importance.

"Pederson! Get over here, you moron!" yelled Dawlish from down the road. At his words, the pompous kid faltered and blushed furiously when he saw that Fudge's cortège had changed direction while he was 'directing' he onlookers.

Pederson turned back to the snickering crowd of people and stuttered our, "Err... Since Minister Fudge had decided to... change his route, you now have permission to return to your previous doings at your own discretion. The Ministry of Magic and Minister Fudge himself wishes you a pleasant day..."

"Pederson! Stop that nonsense and get your butt over here! _Right now!_" yelled Dawlish again.

"Yes sir! Coming sir!" strutted Pederson and left running, leaving the outright laughing group of pedestrians behind. He ran right past furious Dawlish and started speaking directly to the minister.

_So, he's Fudge's protégée amongst his bodyguards. One idiot making the other company_, Harry mused amusedly.

"Sir, Minister, auror Pederson reporting for duty, sir! I offer my sincere apologies for not foreseeing..." his stumbling was quickly interrupted by Fudge, who hadn't even given him a second look.

"Yes, yes... Dawlish! We are going down that alley and then we are done for the day."

"Yes sir," said the stocky Auror and started giving out orders to his men, pointedly ignoring the young idiot. He then ordered Pederson to follow the proceedings from behind and try not to bother the minister again.

_No, definitely not Fudge's protégée_, Harry changed his mind after he saw Fudge dismissing the kid like he was nothing.

Nobody but Harry noticed a bitter and jealous look that Pederson gave Dawlish when his back was turned. It seemed that the young auror's career was on a downward track and the ambitious sycophant was getting quite desperate. He was obviously shooting for Dawlish's job, but by the look of things, he was more likely to get sacked than promoted any time soon. He was obviously at odds with the rest of the team, who saw him as something of a joke. And judging by Fudge's cold dismissal, he wasn't likely to get any support there either. Whatever favour or influence this Pederson-person had used to get this post was long gone now, leaving him hanging solely on his own not-so-considerate skills. Shortly, he was royally screwed.

Harry intently observed the young man stumble down the street, wishfully watching Fudge's inner circle. The plan was slowly forming in his mind.

_Yes, this plan could actually work..._, Harry mused thoughtfully. _Little underhanded, but it's all for the greater good._

Harry stopped, blinked in surprise and then snorted at his last comment. _Shit, I sounded like Dumbledore for a moment there... I wonder if this is how he started..._

But that train of thoughts was interrupted when his food had finally arrived. Harry gave one last look at the idiot auror, strutting behind Fudge's group.

_So, young Pederson craves authority and respect? Well, you know what they say. Be careful what you wish for, it just might come true._

Harry smirked nastily at that thought and than eagerly dug in, forgetting all about his earlier misgivings.

**

* * *

**

It was 9:30 when Harry returned to his room, reasonably full and ready to continue with his studies. _Ok now, what should I do next?_, he asked himself, while mentally listing all the areas he had been working on these past weeks.

When Harry had first started with this whole 'train on your own' business, he was full of ideas about large timetables, strict schedules, study plans and so on. Those ideas were shattered as soon as he tried to apply them in reality. It turned out that without Hermione's slave-driving, he was always breaking and rearranging his self-made schedule - learning runes when he was supposed to do potions, practicing basic Occlumency instead of silencing spells and so on. When Harry tried to analyze his inability to create and follow his own work-plan, he came to a very enlightening conclusion - he was definitely NOT an orderly-studious type of guy. In fact, he was a rather chaotic and artistic type, who could do great things when properly motivated and inspired, or otherwise stare at the same page for hours at end. At first, Harry suspected that he was simply mentally justifying his own laziness, but then he remembered his success with the DA. His defence ability had simply bloomed when he was studying on his own, choosing what spells to learn next by himself, instead of following someone else's lesson plans and programs.

After this self-revelation, Harry had dropped all pretences of following plans and schedules. The only constants in his schedule remained a workout in the morning and mind-clearing exercises in the evening. The rest of the day, Harry would spend studying whatever he felt like at, as long as it fit in with his long-term plans. The results of this new study method proved to be very promising. If he managed to keep this level of success during the following school year, Harry was certain that his theory grades would be second only to Hermione's.

Unfortunately, Harry was well aware that, even with this improved learning method, he would still need several years of relentless practice to come even close to matching Voldemort's current skills in duelling alone, not to mention other branches of magic. After all, the man had spent almost 20 years travelling the world in pursuit of knowledge. Yes, most of that time he had spent in seeking immortality and gathering resources for his campaign, but Harry was well aware that the Dark Lord had picked up a lot of rare and dangerous magical lore throughout his two decades long odyssey.

At one point, Harry had even considered leaving England altogether and training in seclusion for the next decade or so, however long it took until he was ready. In the end, he decided against it. The last thing he needed was to give Voldemort enough time to take over Great Britain, consolidate his power and surround himself with an army. Taking him down at that point would not only require enormous amounts of logistics, manpower and time, but also cause a country-wide civilian casualties and destruction on a scale never seen before.

Getting tangled into this sort of a drawn-out war between two grand armies is the last thing Harry wanted. He had no intention of spending his entire life fighting against Voldemort. He just wanted the whole Prophecy business done and over with as cleanly and painlessly as possible.

That's why it was essential that the Dark Lord's expansion be stalled, if not stopped altogether. Harry needed the current status quo kept in place until he grows strong enough to face Voldemort on equal terms and end this conflict once and for all. What he needed was a _resistance_ - a constant friction in the wheels of the Dark Lord's progress. And since no one else had the guts to do what needed to be done, it was obvious he would have to stick around and see to it himself.

But Harry knew perfectly well that all his plans rested on one crucial factor - him getting ready before the Dark Lord consolidates his defences and puts himself out of a single man's reach. And to ensure his victory in this race against time, some rather _drastic measures_ had to be undertaken.

_Thinking of drastic measures... maybe I should check up on them. It wouldn't do to waste all those rare ingredients just because of my tardiness_, Harry decided, rousing himself from his musings. He walked down to his other invisible tent and stepped inside, the blue phoenix on his tail.

Harry found himself in what looked like an average wizarding apartment. There was a small kitchen on the left, with a dining room attached to it, cosy but simple living room, bathroom and five bedrooms. Only one bedroom remained unchanged, while the others were altered by Harry himself, to better suit his specific needs. Harry approached the door with a rather childish drawing of an exploding caldron attached to it. This picture was Harry's idle attempt of testing whether his newfound artistic character reached further than his abyssal studying habits. Unfortunately, it didn't. Harry frowned at the drawing and entered the room, followed by his phoenix companion.

The room's walls were lined by shelves stacked with various potion ingredients. Spread across were six large silver cauldrons, five of which were in use at the moment. The first cauldron contained Harry's third attempt at making Veritaserum. On a console beside it was a muggle notebook, filled with precise notes about the whole brewing process and detailing a number of theories on why the first two batches had gone wrong. After briefly checked the simmering liquid's colour and density, Harry scribbled a few observations in his notepad and moved on.

The second cauldron contained almost completed batch of Polyjuice potion. Harry had already mastered this potion during his fifth year, as a part of preparations for his O.W.L.-s. His motivation at the time was purely academic, but he still decided to secretly keep the results, "just in case". That turned out to be a wise decision, since those ten vials were put up to good use during his escape from Privet Drive.

The final three cauldrons contained mysterious, highly illegal and expensive concoctions, which represented the ultimate solution for all of Harry's learning problems. In front of the cauldrons with pitch black, sky blue and radiant green potions stood one of Morhad Arven's journals. It was opened to a page titled _'Cerebrum trafero - Mind-enhancing ritual'_. This page was the main reason Harry had paid so much money for this collection.

The idea for doing something like this originated from the second week of Harry's freedom. Back then, after browsing through numerous books and analyzing a variety of study-plans, he finally decided he would need to cheat in some way if he was ever going to catch up with Voldemort. Having made that wise conclusion, he started analyzing a variety of different ideas for achieving that goal. He contemplated the ups and downs of time manipulation. He made a study of methods for stealing someone else's knowledge, through either Legilimency or rituals. He even considered swallowing his pride and turning back to Dumbledore for help.

Finally, the perfect solution presented itself when one of his pub acquaintances mentioned that a number of ways to enhance one's learning capacity can be found in the Arven's collection, which had luckily just been made available for purchase. Explanation was that Morhad, the bookworm that he was, had paid special attention to gathering spells, potions and rituals that would enable him to cram in large amounts of information as quickly and painlessly as possible. And indeed, the journals were simply brimming with study-oriented lore, from copy-protection erasers to temporary memory enhancers. But as soon as Harry laid eyes on the aforesaid ritual, all other options evaporated from his mind.

Cerebrum trafero ritual offers three different boons to the wizard performing it - increased learning capacity, photographic memory and lowered need for sleep to only one hour per day. It would have been too god to be true, if there weren't for two huge downsides.

The first one was its incompatibility with some widely-spread power-enhancing rituals, which made it a very unpopular choice amongst the Dark Lord wannabes. Taking in consideration that the majority of wizards who would even consider rituals, mostly wanted to improve their performance in combat and other flashy types of magic, it became clear why this ritual was rather obscure in the Dark Wizard circles.

The second downside, and the one Harry have had much harder time dealing with, was the price. The problem was that the ritual required some very rare and expensive ingredients. Rare plants and body parts of protected animal species - those Harry could handle. He could always rationalize that the illegal market would keep running, with or without his purchase. What really made his stomach clench was the final ingredient required for powering up the transfer. And like in all Druidic rituals, it was a human sacrifice.

When Harry first came across this section in the ritual's instruction sheet, his first instinct was to close the 'evil' book, burn it and Oblivate himself from even considering something like that. After all, hadn't Voldemort become what he is today by sacrificing human beings for his own benefit? Isn't killing for power evil? Isn't killing of any kind wrong? Would he become corrupted and turn into another version of Voldemort?

But then, his little Slytherin voice of reason started speaking, fighting against his Gryffindor impulses. Voldemort had disfigured himself most likely because of obscure immortality rituals clashing with each other. After all, the Dark Lord was well known for his grotesque experiments, always pushing the limits beyond what any sane man would be willing to endure. Dark wizards had been performing standard, well-tested rituals, with or without human sacrifices, for thousands of years. Most of them had come out none the worse.

Then there was the problem of killing - but then again, Harry was already destined to become a killer. Like it or not, he would get involved in the war and, sooner or later, he would be forced to take another man's life to save his own. So, what is the difference between taking a life in a duel and using it in a ritual? In both cases, Harry's primary motive is his own survival and consequent salvation of the Wizarding world. Yes, on a first glance, a cold-blooded murder seems a lot worse than killing in self-defence. But are these two really that different, or are they merely two sides of the same coin? Is it possible that the only difference between 'murdering' and 'killing' an enemy is a misguided sense of honour? In either case, one human being benefits from the other human being's death. Is the method of this death _so_ important, that losing a war because of it is worth the cost?

This internal debate raged for several hours. Harry was well aware that his final decision would have far-reaching consequences, not only for himself, but for the entire Wizarding world as well. In the end, the cold logic prevailed. Bottom line was, Harry _needed_ to perform the ritual, whether he liked it or not. The only alternative would be wasting several additional years on training, during which many good people, including Harry's friends and acquaintances, would surely perish.

No, Harry simply wasn't ready to exchange his and the lives of his few friends for the life of a single death eater scumbag he needed for the ritual; The life that had been forsaken the moment the poor idiot was branded as the Dark Lord's personal property. Besides, what was the alternative? Do the so-called _'right thing'_ and hand the poor bastard over to the Ministry? They'd only end up shipping him off to Azkaban and throwing away the key, which is the fate even worse than death. This way, instead of wasting it on Dementors, the murdering bastards' life force would be used to atone for at least some of the atrocities they had surely committed during their Death Eater career.

Having finally decided he would truly go on with the ritual, Harry started thinking which Death Eater would be the most suitable candidate for the sacrifice. Not just any poor old muggle bum could be taken from his deathbed and chopped up for ingredients. No, Cerebrum trafero required a healthy, magical and above all intelligent person to be used as a sacrifice. Intelligence of the 'donor' was especially important, seeing how it directly determined the transfer's efficiency. People like Crabble or Goyle wouldn't work as well as someone like Malfoy for example, or... Harry diverted his eyes to the folder besides the Arven's journal. On the cover stood a single name written in bold letters - _'Augustus Rookwood'_.

Harry hadn't had to search too long before the ex-Unspeakable's name came up. After having Joseph compile him a dossier on the guy, the same one he was currently holding, his initial reasoning was confirmed and the target was set. The Azkaban escapee seemed to be just the perfect combination of intellect and wickedness that Harry was looking for. The man was not only an ex-Ravenclaw and the best student of his generation, but he had also managed get recruited by the prestigious Department of Mysteries, the bureau that is known to take only the best of the best. Even his Death Eater achievements were nothing less than stellar; His unobtrusive and flexible intelligence network had been a great asset to Voldemort during his first uprising. Just glancing at this impressive resume had convinced Harry he had found the perfect man for the 'job'. A perfect combination of sharp intellect - to power up the ritual - and a heavy criminal record - to appease his conscience - had definitely sealed Rookwood's fate in Harry's book.

Of course, merely deciding on a plan didn't automatically make that plan come true. There were still complex potions to brew, incomprehensible runes to draw and a Death Eater to catch - and execute. So far, Harry had been busy brewing the needed potions and using that as an excuse not to think about practical aspects of sacrificing another human being in a dark ritual. Even glancing at some of the illustrations in the Arven's journal made his stomach clench with nervousness and self-disgust. But each time that happened, he would clench his teeth and push forwards. He had a destiny to fulfil and no misguided morals, nor egotistical self-serving ideals, nor yellow foam would stop him...

"Yellow foam? What the..." Harry looked at the cauldron with green potion and indeed, there was yellow foam slowly forming on the surface. _I'm pretty sure this shouldn't be happening..._, he mused as he checked in instructions. His examination was confirmed when various sensor wards around the cauldron went off. A temporary stasis field sprung up over the potion, as the alarm started wailing throughout the tent. "Yep, something's definitely gone wrong," he chirped mockingly and then sighed. "Crap!"

Having reinforced the stasis spell on the potion, Harry deactivated the alarms and gathered all his notes and potion books spread around the room. He neatly arranged them on the work-desk, sat at it and started scribbling his initial observations into a potion journal, getting ready for a long session of painstaking research and cross-referencing.

"This is gonna be a long day," he muttered glumly, as he opened his copy of 'McSpiffin's Encyclopaedia of Potion Diagnostics' and started sifting through thousands of pages, looking for the cause of his problem.

**

* * *

**

It was almost 4 PM when Harry finally finished adding last of the moonflower petals into the cauldron and steered three times clockwise, with variable speed. It took him 3 hours to figure out that the problem was probably with the Grundler's scales, which were seemingly taken just before the creature's shedding day. It wouldn't have mattered if there weren't for the slightly lower quality of Marcellus weed, which had probably been in contact with other ingredients, thus slightly decreasing its magical potency. After two more hours of studying several potion master's handbooks and journals, Harry finally figured out how to increase magical potency of the herbal part of the brew, without upsetting the other components. He eagerly waited for a reaction and let go a smile when he saw yellow foam disappearing from the surface. After making sure that there were no further complications, he added several more lines in his journal and closed it, nodding in satisfaction.

Harry smiled to himself when he realized how far he had advanced during the last several months. Faced with a situation like this, any rooky potion brewer, including himself a year ago, would have panicked and banished the 'ruined' potion, cursing his bad luck. Thankfully, Harry now knew better than that. Hours of intensive revision for taking his Potions O.W.L.-s, followed by even more intensive cramming after his escape made a strong impression on his Potions skills. For the first time in his life, he now truly understood the true nature of the potion brewing process, allowing him to correct glitches that inevitably come up, instead of destroying the botched concoction and starting again.

For gone were the days when potion instructions were simple glorified cooking recipes, that one just had to follow to the letter to get the job done. More advanced potions, starting from the fifth year and up, were simply too complicated to predict every possible reaction in advance. Instead, the brewer himself had to avidly monitor the brewing process and correct rising problems on the fly.

Harry finally realized this during his fifth year, after his robotic step-by-step brewing procedure had cost him five ruined potions in a row. Of course, Snape had been acting particularly smug and vindictive during those first several weeks. That's why Harry had paid special attention to his Potions revision, starting with the basics he had missed thanks to Snape's 'sink-or-swim' teaching technique. In the end, he did pretty well on his OWL-s. He figured he had a good shot at scoring a weak Outstanding and making it into Snape's advanced class. If not... well, there were other options he was considering.

Harry's potions training had only intensified when he started brewing complicated solutions needed for Cerebrum trafero ritual. After more than a month of watching over three cauldrons of journeyman-level potions, while trying to mix a NEWT-level and a master-level potion on the side, Harry could easily say that his potion skills had definitely risen up to the NEWT level, maybe even higher.

After one more check up of all the cauldrons and associated timers, Harry dragged himself to the living room and threw himself into one of the comfy couches there. He idly observed _'his'_ phoenix making himself at home at a nearby bookcase, while trying to figure out what to do next.

_All this potion theory made my head spinning_, he whined mentally. _That's it. Some spell practice will clear my head._

He stood up and walked up to another door, with a crude cartoon of an old wizard reading some gigantic tome. _I must have been drunk when I drew these, _Harry grumbled mentally, as he entered the library.

Harry idly wandered amongst mostly empty shells, thinking what spells he might need in the following weeks. Harry had decided to postpone any serious studying, including duelling practice, until after the ritual. In the meantime, he was mostly practicing spells that could help him out in his current situation, where his main goal was to remain hidden.

After brief consideration, he decided to continue his studies of privacy and security spells from the book _'Being Slytherin for Advanced Commoners (Volume 2) - Subtle spell-work,'_ by Leonard Underclaw. Since this book contained mostly borderline legal spells, it was full of Ministry disclaimers, warning the readers about dangers of using such spells in a modern society and other advices on how to remain a good little sheep. Even with all these warnings and restrictions in place, described spells were still mostly defensive in their nature. Thankfully, the author, being a Slytherin that he was, often mentioned much more 'proactive' spells in his footnotes, by the guise of warning the readers to stay away from them. Needles to say, Harry had spent a lot of time peering at the tiny footnotes, trying to decipher vague instructions for the illegal spells mentioned there.

Satisfied with his book of choice, Harry left the library and headed for his other tent. He was eager to try out his new wand in a real practice.

_If I concentrate hard enough, I may even learn 4-5 new spells before dinner_, he mused as he left the tent.

**

* * *

**

"Ok, what the fuck is going on here?" Harry asked no one in particular, as he completely mastered his tenth spell in two hours. Blue phoenix sitting on one of the workout machines thrilled indignantly, as if to say, _"How the hell should I know?"_

Harry just shook his head, and once again tried out all the new spells he had learned. Yes, they all worked perfectly. _There is definitely something weird going on here_, he mused.

Harry had never been sure how powerful he exactly was. In classes, he was mostly average, learning new spells ages after Hermione had already mastered them. But once he'd finally 'crack' a new spell, he was always able to use it flawlessly, better than his smart friend could ever dream of. As much as Hermione was smart and quick on the uptake, Harry was pretty certain she would never be able to summon something from half a mile or chase a hundred Dementors away.

That's why this level of efficiency came as a big shock to Harry. _It was always Hermione who was good at learning, and me who was good in practice. So, what has changed? _

Harry briefly considered it was just his magic growing stronger, but he quickly ruled that theory out. His spells didn't seem more powerful than before; It was just easier for him to master them. He cast his mind back, trying to think of some similar incident from his past. He quickly realized that this strange improvement had first manifested itself this morning, when he managed to cast Sententia Impartio spell in his first try.

_Which means that something must have changed yesterday..._, Harry reasoned. _And it could only be the phoenix, Anarchia, or... _Harry looked at the wand in his hand and his eyes widen in wonderment. _Could it be? _

At first, Harry quickly discarded this solution, since it seemed that his power level had remained about the same. He was certain that he would have noticed the power increase in his spell-work, if his new wand was more compatible than the old one. But now that he thought about it, it seemed rather strange that the phoenixes had decided to show up just as he was holding his new wand for the first time.

Furthermore, learning magic with his new wand felt... _different_; Instead of being jittery and unresponsive, as it was normal when practicing new spells, the magic seemed to flow smoothly through his wand, even on the first try. It just wasn't... _natural_.

_Could it... But no, it couldn't be a power-block. Even Dumbledore isn't strong enough to push something as powerful as Patronus through magical suppressors, _he shook his head in puzzlement.

Seeing that pure logic was getting him nowhere, Harry decided that an experiment might give him some better insight into this phenomenon.

He retrieved his old wand from leg holster and approached the only undamaged cupboard in the centre of the hall. From there, he retrieved a 15 inches tall test-tube, with pale-blue liquid in it. He then expertly immersed his wand in it and patiently waited 30 seconds for Kalinga's blocking solution to do its job.

While planning his escape and consequent summer training, Harry's first idea was to have all the tracking charms permanently removed from his wand. Thankfully, his newfound Slytherin side kicked in, making him realize how stupid that would have been. Yes, it might have worked well during the summer break, but he would have gotten himself into _heaps_ of trouble once the school year started. Even in all their incompetence, Ministry would have surely started an inquiry when their trackers failed to detecting any magic being cast by the famous Boy-Who-Lived, while he was supposedly studying magic at Hogwarts. And Harry definitely wasn't interested in giving Fudge more ammunition to use against him. The last thing he needed was a repeat of the last year's court drama.

Therefore, instead of doing something he couldn't restore later on, Harry decided to use one of the many blocking solutions available for purchase in Knockturn Alley. They would temporarily block any notification charms attached to the wand, including those that the government places on all the wands they license for sale. Of course, being the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry fully expected his wand to carry several more illegal trackers, placed there by various parties interested in his progress; Both Dumbledore and Voldemort included.

_Let them think what they want_, Harry had decided, leaving the illegal tracers intact. _They're in for a hell of a surprise when I start using spells they never expected me to know. The best advantage is using the enemy's advantage against them._ Or in other words, he would use his old wand in classes and perform any extra-curricular activity with the new one, which will remain his secret. It was a simple plan really, but effective nonetheless.

Slight fizzing noise coming from the tube notified Harry that tracker-blocks were in place. He now had six hours of unmonitored wand-usage, before the potion evaporated from the wood.

_Now to find my test subject_, Harry mused, as he opened the spell-book he was working on that day. _Ahh, here's a good one_, he nodded to himself as he found a moderately easy spell, perfect for his experiment.

**• • • • • **

**_Circumspector deprehensio _**

**_Standard power req._**_ - 280spu**  
Maximal range **- 10 m**  
Casting speed** - medium to slow**  
Travelling speed** - slow**  
Colour** - light blue_

**_Duration_**_ - 2 hr x (executed power / 280spu)  
**Effect range** - from 100 m to 10,000 m (determined by wand movement)  
**Mind-link range** - up to 1km_

**_Ministry disclaimer_**_ - Non-restricted for usage on oneself. Requires Ministry's written permission for usage on one's own inanimate objects, by the act 1931-42, section 2C. Restricted to unauthorized personal for usage on other beings or creatures, by the act 1793-73 section 6A. _

**o_ - Origin: _**

_It is widely believed this spell had been crafted by one Jacopo Cattaneo, a little-known Roman wizard from the late 14th century. Jacopo was apparently suffering from a severe case of schizophrenia, resulting in him development a variety of paranoid delusions and conspiracy theories. He had crafted this spell in order to prove to his mind-healers that he was truly being harassed by what he described as "little grey man from Mars, who are - in coalition with Vatican - trying to cover up the truth that the Earth is in fact round". Even though he had successfully completed the spell, he never had the chance to use it, since he was found dead only days later, stabbed and beaten to death with various kitchen and cleaning utensils. The culprits were never found. _

**o_ - Effect: _**

_The spell detects any kind of lens focused upon the affected object and sends the caster a vague feeling of a direction where the source is located at (by means of a temporary mind-link). The kind of lenses it is primarily designed to detect is an eye (human, or of any other decently developed species), although it can be used to detect omnioculars, muggle binoculars or other artificial lenses. Target object is usually the caster himself, although the spell is sometimes used as a protection measure for vaults or stored valuables (using runic version). _

**o_ - Casting: _**

_Part 1: _

_Flick left and right to start the flow. Say "**Circumspector**," with circular wand motion. This is the time to push for additional power (Note: increase the number of revolutions or their diameter to compensate). _

_Part 2: _

_Say **"deprehensio," **while determining the range. To set the range from 100 to 1000 meters, start with horizontal double-flick. Otherwise, the base is set to ten. Proceed with vertical double-flicks (from 1 to 10), to specify the number of tens or hundreds. (Example: H-D-F followed by 4 V-D-F means 400 m; Only 4 V-D-F means 40 m) _

_Part 3: _

_Point and release with the last syllable. Envision the target in its entirety. _

**o_ - Underclaw's tips: _**

_Always have the spell on your person when appearing in public. Release only when in centre of attention (it can get a bit confusing). In closed space, set perimeter to 30 m, on open spaces prudent value is at least 500 m. Never let on that you feel the watcher by staring in his direction. If you are being followed, hide behind some corner and reverse the situation on your pursuers. If you're persecuted by muggles, the spell can be used to detect snipers (long-range killing wands). Never rely solely on this spell, since it can be fooled by a variety of muggle and magical means._

**• • • • • **

Having memorized the instructions, Harry took out his old wand and started trying out the spell. After many unsuccessful tries, the old feeling of frustration started coming back to him. He was certain he was doing everything right, but the magic simply wasn't working. After the ease with which magic flowed through his new wand, this one seemed like a useless piece of dead wood.

Frowning, Harry took his new wand and did the proper incantation and movements. He felt an immediate trickle, but a skewed last flick ruined it. On the second try, a weak blue light fizzled from the tip, but quickly died out. On the third attempt, the spell finally worked correctly. With another 5-6 minutes of practice, the spell was completely mastered. Harry was able to perform it in any variation of parameters, without having to concentrate exclusively on casting it.

He then took his old wand again, and performed the casting with already practiced ease. Nothing happened.

_Now, this is definitely weird_, Harry thought, as he raised an eyebrow at his malfunctioning wand. Just for the experiment's sake, he started casting the spell repeatedly as fast as he could, not paying attention to the complete lack of results. After several more tries, he has gotten his first results - a distorted flicker of magic. He repeated the spell flawlessly, which resulted only in another distorted spasm of magic that levitated Underclaw's book two feet in the air.

Harry suddenly realized that, if he wasn't absolutely certain he was doing everything correctly, he would have already lost his patience and attempted several alternate approaches. He vaguely recalled countless lessons he had spent doing exactly that - skewing his wand movement and pronunciation in an attempt to correct the 'flaws' in his casting technique.

_Interesting_, Harry murmured and kept practicing, resulting in smaller and smaller distortions with each new try. At this stage back at Hogwarts, he would have usually gotten all elated, thinking he was finally getting a hang of the spell. After ten more minutes of fast casting, he finally managed to perform the spell perfectly. With a touch of pride, he noted that his wand hand was only slightly tired after all that waving. _I guess the arm-muscle training regime is working,_ he mused.

Harry recast the spell again with his old wand, and then again with the new one. There was no visible difference. They both felt exactly the same and produced the same power output. If he hadn't just performed this experiment, he would have sworn that both wands were perfectly matched for him. But now, he knew better than that. He realized that his old wand had definitely been tempered with, probably even before his Hogwarts days. And he had a pretty good idea by whom.

There was only one man who knew the whole Prophecy, including the part about Harry and the Dark Lord being 'equals'. There was only one man able to connect the dots and make an educated guess that this part would probably translate to twin wands as well. There was only one man who could have borrowed Voldemort's brother wand from Ollivander's, on grounds of the wand's core material being supplied by his familiar. There was only one man who had access to the Privet Drive prior to Harry's first year, thus having the ability to sneak in and test Harry's compatibility with the borrowed wand. And at last, there was only one man smart and powerful enough to create such restraints on a wand, that would limit the owner's spell learning speed, but not their power.

"Dumbledore," Harry hissed furiously, flashing his aura around him. The Phoenix gave a startled yelp and flew away from pissed off wizard.

_That bastard purposely limited my learning ability! I needlessly spent countless hours trying out spells over and over again, while I could have getting ready for the fight against Voldemort_, Harry thought angrily.

Thinking about a way to confirm this theory, he had a sudden brainstorm. Image of a page from the book he'd been reading earlier that day flashed before his eyes and he instantly knew what to do.

Harry took both his wands and rushed to the tavern room. He grabbed Anarchia and opened it to the index page, quickly getting over the mandatory security test. Just for curiosity's sake, he tried casting 'Sententia Impartio' with his tampered wand. He wasn't at all surprised when the spell failed.

Using his new wand, Harry once again made an inquiry about the author 'Christmas Stockings'. After spending several minutes listing through the long index, he finally found what he was looking for. It was Dumbledore's very last article about pure magical theory, from the middle of 1988. The title was 'Spell familiarity wards for magical foci'. Not very eye-catchy, but Dumbledore probably didn't like the idea of too many curious people getting a glimpse of his precious knowledge.

_Anarchia probably had to wrench words out of his mouth... well, quill_, Harry mused as he tapped the title and waited for the correct page to show.

After reading the article, Harry slowly closed the book and lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He only had one thought on his mind. _The man is a genius... Evil perverted sick old meddling fucking bastard of a genius, but genius nonetheless. _

Harry felt his respect for Dumbledore's intellect growing, while his respect for the man behind it pummelling even further. He actually wasn't sure whether to be offended or flattered by the fact that the undoubtedly great wizard had apparently invented a completely new type of magical block, for the sole purpose of screwing up with his life. The magical ward he had crafted was simply a masterpiece of both intellect and deviousness. Unlike the ordinary power suppression wards - which are easily detected by the power output lower than expected - Dumbledore's familiarity ward don't affect the power at all. The only thing it does is disrupt magical flow for each new spell independently, until the spell is cast an appropriate amount of times. The old goat even managed to make the blocking time interactive, depending on the difficulty of the spell and the caster's prowess. So, instead of having an obviously powerful student not being able to cast powerful spells, which is a dead giveaway, Dumbledore's wards would make said student seem simply too lazy or stupid to properly concentrate on their studies.

Harry clenched his teeth in anger, as he recalled Hermione's endless lectures about his abyssal learning capacity. _It's no wonder my initial desire to prove myself in a new environment was quickly forgotten once the classes started,_ Harry mused. _Even the Sorting Hat saw where I belonged, but I was too damn distracted by having friends for the first time and being too afraid of losing them. Not to mention being fed all the anti-Slytherin propaganda prior to my sorting. _

In retrospect, Harry realized that conveniently befriending Ron on the platform, getting sorted into Gryffindor and scoring below average grades in all his classes were fundamental in quenching his initial ambitions to learn and prosper. Instead, he became content with wasting his abilities at solving silly little mysteries Dumbledore had been expertly planting for him, and slacking around with Ron for hours at end. After all, if he ever needed some information or help, he had Hermione and Dumbledore at his side, right? Why would he go through hours of frustrating repetition, only to learn something he could easily get one of his faithful allies to do for him? After all, it was Gryffindor and Slytherin the Hat had been torn between; Ravenclaw was never even taken in consideration - and rightly so.

For this situation, Harry didn't blame his friends in the slightest. They were simply being themselves, for better or for worse. On the contrary, Harry was putting this entire blame on himself, and for once, rightly so. He was especially furious for not seeing through Dumbledore's game earlier. If he had only figured this out a few years ago, than Voldemort may not have returned and Cedric may not have died and Sirius...

_No_, Harry mentally slapped himself. _What is done is done. I can't change that. What I CAN do is change the way I'm acting now. So, instead of bitching about how screwed I am, how about I do something about it? _

With that mental kick in the arse, Harry put Anarchia away and threw himself back into his studies with renewed vigour.

**

* * *

**

_Déjà vu_.

That was what Dumbledore felt as he waited for the Order members to take their seats in the meeting room of the Moody's cottage. All thirty or so of his subordinates were currently standing in small groups around the long table and chatting about their last 24 hours spent in a hectic search for clues about Harry Potter's disappearance.

Even the Weasley kids were in the room, trying to overhear some scarp of info about their wayward friend. Ginny was hyperactively running from group to group, asking them questions in quick succession. Each time irritated wizards shooed her away, she immediately sought out her next victim, eager to continue her barrage of questions. Ron, on the other hand, was moving slyly through the room, never interrupting conversations but discretely eavesdropping and filing in everything that was said. His eyes would glaze over from time to time, like he was having some internal debate, but he would quickly snap out of it and go back to the information gathering.

Dumbledore pursed his lips thoughtfully at this strange behaviour. It was apparent that the boy was having much more success than Ginny with her annoying bubbly attitude.

_Wasn't Ronald Weasley the epitome of Gryffindor? The tactic he is using now is something a Slytherin would do_, he mused. _Ah well, I shouldn't underestimate people just because they are from the house of brave and foolish. _

He brushed this aside and redirected his attention at what was really bothering him at the moment and that was the conduct of his minions.

_Why does everyone feel the need to discuss their findings before the meeting has even started?_ Dumbledore grumbled mentally. He never liked being left out and that was exactly how he was feeling right now. Not to mention that this exchange would ruin all the nasty surprises that would certainly be revealed, thus depriving Albus of seeing the group's comical reactions and arguments. _That would not do_, he decided firmly.

"Now, now, settle down friends, it's time to start the meeting," Albus said, flashing his aura a bit to gain attention.

As the Order members started taking their seats, Molly turned towards her children. "Ron, Ginny, off to your rooms."

"But mum, how come we were allowed in yesterday and not today?" whined Ginny. Ron stayed silent, having one more of his internal debates.

"No buts, young lady. I think we've agreed that yesterday was an exception; One-time deal. Now, off you go, you too Ronald," she said sternly.

"But muuum..." Ginny's best pout was interrupted by Ron. "Ok mum. Let's go, Ginny," he said and went for the door, dragging his sister along.

"Traitor," she said through clenched teeth, but one glare from her mother made her comply.

Albus vaguely heard Ronald bargaining with his sister about telling her what he had found out in exchange for her doing some of his chores, before Tonks closed the door and stumbled to her seat. With a shake of his head, Albus shrugged this incident off, before finally opening the meeting.

"We have gathered here to share our first findings about Harry Potter's disappearance. Now, without further ado, why don't we start with what little clues we've already had. Severus?"

Snape emerged from the corner and straightened himself self-importantly at the other end of the table. He, along with Moody, would always rather loom from above, instead of sitting down with the rest of the 'commoners'. He gave the whole table his famous death-glare, instantly capturing their attention.

_Oh, he's good_, acknowledged Dumbledore, already categorizing the ways Snape could improve his performance. If Snape was a master of appearance, Dumbledore was nothing less than a grandmaster.

"During our search of Potter's premises, we have found vials of commercial-grade Polyjuice potion. My primary task yesterday was to inquire about the origins of these vials and extract as much information about Potter's activities as possible. Naturally, I was successful," Snape said self-importantly. That caused a few smiles but they were quickly silenced by death glares targeted at the culprits. "The potion brewer that sold the vials is Lester Gardner, potion master candidate and the owner of an apothecary in the Knockturn Alley district."

Snape paused dramatically and smirked at the ensued gasps and whispers along the table. He couldn't help but feel amused at seeing some people's reactions at conformation that their hero had indeed visited the ill-reputed hub of dark wizard activities.

_Pitiful_, he sneered. _And these are supposed to be the best wizards that Light has to offer. I can't believe some of them are still deluded by children tales about the dark and evil Knockturn Alley, where their parents would send them if they misbehave. It's just a lower class neighbourhood, for crying out loud. _

Albus, on the other end of the table, was having his own thoughts about this reaction. Even though his face was a grave mask, those few who knew him well could have spotted vague traces of approval and even satisfaction on his face. _Commoners' believing in existence of good and evil is always a good trend, and should be constantly reinforced by demonizing or idolizing certain symbols, places or people. Knockturn Alley is a symbol. So is Harry. Mix those two together... Hmm, this incident could go a long way towards convincing the Order that Harry had turned dark. I just hope I'll never be forced to play that card_, he analyzed coldly.

Snapping himself from his musings, Albus cleared his thought and flashed his aura a bit, making Order members quiet down. "Please continue, Severus," he said pleasantly.

Snape curtly nodded. "As I was saying, Potter had visited Gardner the very next day after his... desertion and requested 50 vials of the Polyjuice. After providing Potter with the potions, the brat offered Gardner 50 galleons for performing two spells for him." There were few whistles from some members. Molly seemed especially stricken that Harry would waste so much money on some dark wizard lowlife. Snape chose to ignore the commotion and went on. "Naturally, Gardner readily accepted. He was first told to transfer the tracking spells from the brat and onto the potion vials, and then to shrink the whole package, so it could be carried in one's pocket. Potter paid him, with a bonus for keeping quiet about his visit, and then left. Gardner never saw him again," finished Snape matter-of-factly.

"Err... excuse me," asked one of the newer Order members, waving her hand like a schoolgirl. She was an ex-Gryffindor that had just found a job as a secretary in the Magical Transportation department.

Albus smiled at her and said, "Yes, Anexia?" Anexia Meyers was useless in combat, but her position in the Transport department made acquiring portkeys and secure floo connections much easier than it normally would be. She had a way of insuring that all Order-related paperwork miraculously get transported at top of the pile and proceed smoothly through the bureaucratic machine. She was also keeping an eye on the strong ministry supporters and potential Death Eaters inside her department and all of its subdivisions. A very useful pawn indeed, when applied properly.

"Well, sir... err, what tracking spells?" Anexia asked timidly. She didn't seem like much between two of her school authority figures, but when given some administrative assignment, she would always come through in the end.

Snape started to reply with an evil glint in his eye, but Dumbledore was faster. "Ah, yes, the tracking spell. You see, we've had a tracer placed on Harry during the summer. The idea was to be able to find him in case he was kidnapped by the Death Eaters. Alas, it seems that Harry had decided to have it removed, which only puts him in even graver danger. Anything could happen to him now and we would never know."

Albus knew that he had to change the subject quickly. Placing tracking charms on people was highly illegal, without a court order or the target's explicit permission. He intentionally phrased his answer so that it seemed like Harry had willingly accepted the placement of the charm, without actually saying so directly; Just a small trick from his repertoire. Of course, Harry had no idea about the tracer, seeing how it has been in place ever since his parents' demise, 15 years ago. It wouldn't be wise for too many people to know that, though. "Ah, Severus, you have anything else to add?"

Severs knew what Albus was doing and nodded slightly to his second master. They had discussed this prior to the meeting and decided on what information would be shared with the grunts. "Yes Albus. The Dark Lord summoned me earlier today. Apparently, someone had been spying on the Privet Drive yesterday, and witnessed the werewolf exposing Potter's deceit. It seems that the Dark Lord is now aware of the boy's disappearance."

The room immediately exploded with voices. Some people were yelling about treachery, accusing Snape, Dung or Remus of leaking the information. The others were requesting that they intensify the search, now that the Death Eaters were actively seeking their charge as well. Moody was yelling that he had warned them about constant vigilance, but nobody ever listens to him. A few people told him to shut up. Some members were requesting that they bring in the Ministry, while others were arguing against it. Many were just putting their two cents in, without actually saying anything relevant. Twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes said that this was exactly the kind of reaction he had hoped for.

Albus was well aware that Snape's revelation was only half-accurate at best. According to the spy's private report before the meeting, the Dark Lord had in fact purchased this information from one of the underground rumour peddlers.

Not long after that disturbing find, Albus had received a firecall from Cornelius Fudge, who was in a state of panic over the same information the Dark Lord had received. Thankfully, after some careful manoeuvring, Fudge became convinced that Harry's 'alleged' disappearance was nothing but Dumbledore's weak attempt at trying to discredit him. Albus was then forced to endure five minutes long rant, where the Minister rudely explained to him how he wasn't a malleable fool that can be easy manipulated. It took several humble admissions and two sincere apologies before Fudge finally ended the call, satisfied with how he had outsmarted Dumbledore and saw right through his schemes. Only once the fool was finally dealt with, did Albus sit down and start analyzing the situation in the earnest.

From Snape's report and Fudge's subsequent firecall, Dumbledore quickly summarized that someone from the Order itself had leaked the information. That's why he instructed Snape to give the Order an abridged version of his report, hiding from them Voldemort's true source. While Snape was making his revelation, Albus was carefully inspecting his minions, trying to spot any sign of a treachery. Having found none, he concluded that either the spy was skilled with the mind arts, or there was no spy at all. The Dark Lord could have truly discovered the news by himself and then leaked it to Fudge, in hope of unsettling Albus with doubts about his men. Either way, Albus would have to stay wary of the Order and conceal more information than usual, at least until this situation is settled one way or the other. If spotted, this behaviour could very well cause discontent within his ranks, maybe even damage his minions' loyalty.

_Damn you Tom, that was a crafty move_, Albus cursed mentally, before standing up and ending the chaos in the room. When everyone was quiet once again, he redirected his attention back to Snape. "Severus, have you got anything else to add?"

"Yes. I would only like to emphasize that, according to the potion brewers I encountered, the stupid boy haven't even tried to purchase any kind of solution for blocking the wand trackers. Considering the fact that none of Dung's colourful contacts mentioned dealing with Potter either, as far as I'm aware of..." Snape paused and turned towards Dung with a raised eyebrow, awaiting his confirmation.

Mundungus flinched under the stare and stumbled out, "Ah, yes, no sign of the boy anywhere."

Snape sneered at the old scoundrel and continued. "Precisely. Then, it's safe to assume that the idiotic brat didn't think of buying a replacement wand either. I believe that at least _some_ of you would be able to see relevance of this fact and draw your own conclusions."

The first one to speak was Kingsley. "Potter is unarmed," he said simply.

"Now wait a second," said Amos Diggory. "The boy still has his wand, right?"

"Yes, but after the last year's episode with underage magic, he'll be extremely reluctant to use it, even in a life or death situation," replied Kingsley. "And in combat, weapon you are reluctant to use is not much of a weapon at all." Mad-Eye nodded grimly in confirmation.

Many wizards started whispering worriedly, while the others were angrily arguing with Snape, who was gleefully preaching about the stupidity of Gryffindors and especially their poster boy. No one noticed a brief flicker of smugness on Albus' face, before it melted away into a worried grimace.

_These are good news, indeed,_ he thought. _Harry was probably so intent on escaping, that he didn't even consider trying to learn anything new or practice magic on his own. Bless Gryffindors and their single-track minds. _

Aloud, Albus said, "Thank you Severus, these are grave news indeed. This puts even more emphasis on the danger Harry is in and increases our urgency of finding him. Now, did anyone else found any other traces of Harry?"

Many Order members shook their head or replied in negative. However, Albus noticed that Jones and Vance were exchanging some hushed words. A moment later, Hestia cleared her throat and spoke up. "Emmeline and I have some clues about Harry's whereabouts."

"Please continue," said Albus pleasantly in a dead quiet room.

"You go first," said Emmeline to Hestia, who nodded.

Hestia Jones was a young, half-blood witch, whose family owned a small Magical Appliances store in the Diagon Alley. She had been assigned a task of checking out other merchants in the Alley for sightings of Harry Potter. Dumbledore's reasoning was that the storeowners would prefer to share their observations with one of their own colleagues, rather than with some random stranger. His assumptions were proven correct.

"Well, as you know, my area of research was Diagon Alley's storeowners. At first, it all seemed futile - none of the prominent storeowners had seen Harry for years. But then, when I moved my search to the more obscure business, I hit gold with the 'Kontiki Tours' travel agency."

For once, Dumbledore immediately stopped the ensued whispering. _This couldn't be good_, he mused, feeling anxious for the first time that night. "Please continue, Hestia," he said to the young witch, who blushed even further at all the attention she was receiving.

"Well, Mr. Webster, the owner of the agency, said that Harry had indeed visited him, from what I gathered, two days after his... departure. He said that Harry had been asking around about travel arrangements to other countries. He had been planning to book a portkey to one of the tourist locations, until Mr. Webster informed him that he would need to bring his guardians along, so they could give their permission in person. Harry had shown him his guardian permits and then he even tried to bribe him, but Mr. Webster stayed adamant not to break the law. Seeing that he could achieve nothing, Harry decided to leave and try with some other agency."

"So what's the point of this whole episode, except for once again proving Potter's idiocy and his blatant disregard for the rules?" interrupted Snape.

"I was just getting to that," replied flushed Hestia. "As I said, Harry was just about to leave, when he spotted a flyer on the counter of the store. It was advertising a sale of fake muggle documentation."

"Oh dear," said Mr. Weasley.

"Exactly," said Hestia. "Harry immediately asked whether he could purchase a complete set of enchanted muggle documents, including a passport. Mr. Webster had to check up a few law books, but everything seemed perfectly legal. It turned out that, unlike portkeys, which are regulated by guardian permits for unrestricted travel, obtaining documentation is classified under 'administrative dealings', thus placed under much milder restrictions." After making sure everyone understood the thin but important distinction, she took a breath and went on. "In the end, Harry purchased a complete set of false documentation, claiming he was 18, thus making him legible to travel unsupervised anywhere in the muggle world. After paying Mr. Webster a little extra to keep quiet about the transaction, he left, presumably to make arrangements for his trip in a muggle travel agency. The storeowner claims he hasn't seen him sense," Hestia finished her story and sat down.

Emmeline Vance interrupted the rising discussions by clearing her throat. "I believe this is where I step in," she said in her characteristic uptight tone. Even though she was a Muggleborn, her posture could easily put any Pureblood aristocrat to shame - a clearly visible product of her upbringing amongst the muggle high society. After graduation, she gladly took her place in her family company's hierarchy, orchestrating its expansion into parts of the Magical world. Everyone knew that her involvement in the Order was largely so that she could monitor the threat that Pureblood extremists posed to her business interests within the Britain's magical enclaves. Still, she gave as much as she took. Her standing and influence made her the Order's primary liaison for any dealings within the muggle world.

"Thanks to my unique position, I was assigned a task of organizing a search effort for Mr. Potter outside of magical communities. I was just having a meeting with several private investigators, when I received an owl from Hestia, informing me of her findings. After Oblivating the detectives, I immediately sent them out to check all the Customs databases for a record of Harry Potter leaving the country. Here is what they've found," she said in a crisp voice while retrieving a piece of paper from her muggle purse. She then duplicated the paper several dozen times and passed the copies to her Order colleagues around the table. Muggleborns immediately recognized a computer printout, while most of the Purebloods stared at the neat script with confusion, interest or even disdain. Of course, Mr. Weasley was bouncing in his seat with unanswered questions, but one glare from his wife insured that he kept his mouth shut.

"As you can see in the header, this printout is the passenger list of the flight 1724, London to Melbourne, from June 24th 1996. Now, if you would kindly direct your attention to seat number 73..."

"Potter," Snape sneered, his natural disgust for the boy intensified by having to hold a filthy muggle artefact.

"Precisely," said Vance smugly and leaned back in her chair, satisfied with her work.

"Excellent, my dear, truly remarkable," said Dumbledore brightly, while curiously inspecting the muggle paper through his half-moon glasses. With some amusement, he noted that several of his most devoted followers tried to duplicate his actions, intently glaring at their copies of the printout and nodding to themselves thoughtfully, as if seeing the same hidden meaning that their great leader had spotted.

Covering his snort with a slight cough, Dumbledore brought the attention back to himself. "It seems that we'll have to redirect our search to Australia. But before we discuss that, is there any other reports? Anyone? Anything at all?"

Cruciatus was far from the only way of demonstrating one's displeasure with their minions. Albus gave each of the Order members a piercing stare, making them squirm uncomfortably in their seats. As his disappointed eyes dismissed them one by one, he noted the chastised wizards sagging in relief and then narrowing their eyes in determination, promising to themselves they'd do better next time. Yes, respect and loyalty were delicate substitutes for fear and blackmail, but if applied correctly, they were a thousand times more powerful.

"Very well," Dumbledore sighed after finishing his round. "Now, before we decide our course of actions, I'm due to share my own findings with you." He paused for the effect and then went on. "The first issue I would like to address are the original ten vials of Polyjuice that Harry had given to the Dursleys prior to his departure from Privet Drive. Now, Severus' first estimate was that the potion was student's work, most likely brewed by Hermione Granger, Harry's friend. I must say that only half of that statement has turned out to be correct."

Snape sneered at that comment, but remained silent. "You see, Mrs. Granger is currently on a vacation in Spain with her parents. A lovely country that, I must say. Why, I remember when me and my brother-"

At McGonagall's well-practiced clearing of throat, Albus made a well-practiced chastised face and went back to his speech. "Ah yes. Well, as I was saying, Mrs. Granger and her family are out of the country at the moment. Thankfully, prior to her departure, she had agreed to take with her an amulet charmed to act as an apparation beacon. Yesterday night, I apparated to her location and questioned her about Harry's recent behaviour and her role in the brewing of Polyjuice potion. And while she admitted some practical experience with that particular line of potions," Dumbledore's eyes twinkled brightly at Snape's venomous sneer, "she categorically denied helping Harry brew Polyjuice anytime in the... recent history. Thus, the only logical conclusion is that Harry had received help from some other student or that he had brewed the potion himself."

"Preposterous," snapped Snape. "That stupid boy has neither the discipline nor the knowledge needed to brew a mixture of that complexity. He must have had one of his loyal fans make it for him. That's the only thing your Golden Boy can do - use his fame to break rules and seek even more glory."

"That's enough Severus," Dumbledore said sternly amidst the protests of Harry's supporters. Still, his eyes kept twinkling with good humour. Unlike Snape, Albus was more inclined towards the other explanation, well aware of Harry's diligent work on his potion brewing skills.

_Oh, how much fun it would be if I were to disclose that Harry had received 'Outstanding' on his Potions O.W.L._, Albus thought amusedly. _But no_, he reprimanded himself immediately, _I need to create an image of Harry the lost-little-boy, not Harry the good-student-who-can-take-care-of-himself. I don't need people questioning the need to put every resource available into finding the boy._

Aloud, Albus said, "We shall have a definite answer to that question once we locate Harry and bring him in. Until then, I don't see the need for prolonging this line of enquiry any further." He waited a few seconds for the last arguments to die down and then moved on.

"My second point tonight is about Harry's finances. As you are probably aware of, by being Harry's magical advisor, I've had a duty of acting as an overseer of his hereditary accounts. Unfortunately, Harry saw fit to remove me from this position, as well as replace Slimepick, the goblin in charge of his family's accounts. He was also prudent enough to give quite a generous donation to Slimepick's supervisor, ensuring his department's silence regarding these replacements. That's the actual reason why I hadn't been notified about any of these changes prior to my visit yesterday evening."

"And the official explanation? Let me guess. Misplaced memo? Spontaneous combustion of the mail parchment?" asked Bill Weasley, the Order's referent for goblin issues.

"Not this time, Billius. Apparently, some of the inhibition charms on the female owl carrying the notices failed, while she happened to be in the mating season," Dumbledore corrected him with an amused twinkle in his eyes. Even when giving excuses for breaking the rules, Goblins were known to make it crystal clear exactly who made the rules in the first place and how much they are worth. Usually in hard currency.

When the chuckling died down, Albus went on. "In all seriousness, this development is very unfortunate for us, since I'm certain that Slimepick could have been... _persuaded_ to give us a hint or two about Harry's spending. Something that his replacement was most reluctant to do."

"Oh come on Headmaster," interrupted Bill. "I'm positive that any account manager could be easily bribed into giving at least some information about the accounts he's in charge of. Amongst goblins, being corrupted is almost a mandatory prerequirement for that position. What manager we are speaking of here?"

"Griphook," replied Dumbledore, his eyes shining with amusement.

"Oh... Griphook..." murmured Bill. "I'm not sure I've ever heard of that goblin before, and I know almost all the account managers Gringotts has. Is he new at the job?"

Dumbledore's twinkle went into overdrive. "Yes, you could certainly say that," he said amusedly, before giving in and providing an explanation. "You see, when level five accounts director Clubtooth asked Harry which account manager he would prefer in place of Slimepick, Harry immediately said the name 'Griphook'. When Clubtooth informed him that Gringotts had no account manager under that name, Harry elaborated that this _Griphook_ was in fact the goblin that had taken him to a cart ride, during his very first visit to Gringotts."

That revelation caused quite a commotion. "Goblin that took him to a... _a cart ride_?" asked Bill incredulously. "But... But then this _Griphook_ must be just a grunt... a... a _clerk_. He wouldn't know the first thing about managing an account."

"I am quite certain that Clubtooth's reaction was not unlike your own, Billius," replied Dumbledore amusedly. "Nevertheless, Harry was adamant to hire that particular goblin, refusing to even consider any other. Thus, Griphook was promptly summoned and informed of his new prestigious job. After giving the goblin some time to recover, Harry instructed Griphook that he is to immediately enrol in the Gringotts' school for management, on the Potter family's expense. Apparently, Harry gave the young goblin one year to become an accomplished account manager."

Snape snorted and shook his head. "Preposterous. No sane wizard had ever done something as stupid as that. That boy is even more idiotic that I thought. He will ruin all that generations of his ancestors had struggled to accomplish." Snape stretched himself in self-satisfied manner. "And I'll be there to see it happen," he finished smugly.

"I'm not so sure about that, Severus," replied Dumbledore. "Harry's account is governed by a... certain inheritance law," Dumbledore briefly glanced at Arthur Weasley, who shifted uncomfortably, "that forbids active management of the old families' accounts, before the family's head reaches their maturity. So, until Harry's seventeenth birthday, there's not much that Griphook can actually do, except make some limited low-risk investments and convert riches into gems or real-estate and back. Furthermore, Harry absolutely forbid Griphook to disclose any privileged information about his finances, on penalty of firing him. Now, most account managers wouldn't even acknowledge that threat, since Gringotts would simply reallocate them to some other account if they got sacked. Griphook, on the other hand, would be back to his old job of a cart driver. As you can imagine, that made him into one tight-lipped goblin and Harry's devoted follower," Dumbledore finished his explanation with some humour. "So, you see Severus, that particular move was actually quite brilliant in this situation. I only wonder whether that was a stroke of luck, or did Harry know exactly what he was doing," Albus finished thoughtfully.

Snape sneered and started to say something, but Dumbledore beat him to it. "Yes, Severus, we're all aware of what your opinion on that matter would be," he said, smiling slightly. Snape bristled, bit his tongue and retreated to his corner, amidst chuckling of the Order members.

"To conclude, Harry's finances are hidden from us at the moment and they're bound to remain that way in the foreseeable future," Dumbledore said, stopping the commotion. If there's one thing Snape hated the most, it was laughter at his expanse.

"And now, the final and most important point tonight - guardian permits. We spoke of them before, but it would be prudent to elaborate further, considering that many of you hadn't even heard of them before tonight." Albus stopped for a moment, creating a small pause that captured the attention of everyone present.

"As you are already aware of, Harry has had his guardians sign so called 'muggle guardian permits'. These legal documents are used to take away some of the privileges from a child's magical advisor - which is yours truly in this case - and give them to the child in question. As you may suspect, Harry had taken all the privileges he was able to, including the full control over his finances, freedom of movement, unrestricted correspondence and more. Shortly, he had removed almost all of our legal authority over him. I have tried to intervene at the Ministry, but Harry had already filed in the paperwork, so there was really nothing I could do."

"Couldn't we just make the Dursleys cancel the permits?" asked one of the Aurors present.

"No, I'm afraid not. I looked into it and found a rather interesting set of circumstances surrounding the law about these permits. Apparently, there used to be a clause that allowed muggle guardians to cancel all issued permits by _personally_ filing in a request at the Ministry. But then, some two hundred years ago, that stipulation was suddenly cancelled. You see, it seems that the Minister at the time was... shall we say, of disputable open-mindness."

"You men, he was a pureblooded supremacist git," piped in Tonks.

Dumbledore nodded approvingly, his eyes twinkling. "That's another way to say it. Well as the story goes, the Minister was one day walking down the corridor, when he accidentally bumped into a pair of muggles, who had gotten lost inside the building. The exact circumstances of that encounter weren't recorded, but whatever happened back then, it made the Minister so furious, that he immediately summoned his legal advisor and instructed him to change all the laws that allowed muggles access to the Ministry, in any capacity whatsoever."

"Oh dear. Don't tell me. They just removed the clause about muggles cancelling the permits personally, without adding any other alternative," piped in Mr. Weasley, who was considered for the Order's primary ear inside the Ministry.

"Exactly, Arthur. Unfortunately, it seems that this whole 'Muggle permits' privilege is so rarely used nowadays, that no one even noticed that loophole in the law... until now that is."

"So, let me get this straight," interrupted Moody's gruff voice. "Once the permits are filed in, there is no legal way to cancel them, because of some arsehole colliding with a muggle two hundred years ago."

Dumbledore's twinkle went into overdrive. "That about sums it up," he said cheerfully.

"Amazing saint Potter, once again saved by luck," sneered Snape.

Some people gave him disapproving looks, but most ignored him. Molly asked fearfully, "Albus, what we're going to do? You know how impulsive Harry is. He will get himself killed and there is no way we can help him."

_Bless, you Molly, just the introduction I needed_, thought Dumbledore. He gently subdued the twinkle and prepared his sad voice. "Molly, I'm afraid that this is one of those situations where the secret nature of our group will come in handy." He lifted his eyes and gave each member a serious, penetrating stare. "The reason why we formed this group in the first place is exactly for situations like this. When the Ministry's tardiness and inefficiency starts to endanger people's lives, it is our duty to step above the law and do what needs to be done, for the greater good."

Many of the people present frowned disapprovingly. They were here to fight Death Eaters without the Ministry's paperwork. Risking jail-time only to catch Dumbledore's escaped pet wasn't high up on their list of priorities.

Albus saw this and decided to sugarcoat the deal a bit further. He completely extinguished his twinkle and gravely looked into the distance, as if inspecting the dark future that would come to pass if his advices aren't followed. "One more time, please allow me to stress how important Harry's safety is to our cause. That dear boy had become an icon of hope in our fight against Voldemort. His deflection of the Killing Curse and consequent continuous defiance against Voldemort is what gives everyone hope that they too will outlast this darkness that's looming above us. His very existence is keeping people's spirits up, by giving them a symbol they can rally behind in their ongoing struggle against Evil." Albus sighed theatrically. "If something were to happen to Harry, I'm afraid that would be utterly devastating for the public morale, and could easily signal the end of our side in this war. Our lives and lives of our children... friends... family..." He was looking pointedly at various Order members who had been disapproving earlier. They shifted nervously at his words. "...are hanging in balance. They depend solely on the skills of a single, untrained 16-year-old boy, who is alone out there, with some of the vilest wizards of the world chasing after him. Harry has been lucky thus far, but eventually, his luck will run out. Voldemort's minions will catch him, torture him and kill him, dooming us all, along with the rest of the world, to a new age of darkness."

At this point Molly Weasley started sobbing in her husband's arms, while some other Order members shifted anxiously in their seats, as if they were itching to run out there and catch that stupid kid, who's trying to get them all killed. Albus smirked inwardly. He knew he almost had them. Now he just had to strike the fatal blow.

He looked downwards shamefully and hunched in his chair tiredly, making one of the most pitiful appearances he had perfected thus far. "I'm afraid that I'll have to suggest that we do whatever needs to be done to protect Harry, regardless of the laws or the boy's personal wishes. I know that some of you don't like the idea of breaking the law, or forcefully taking Harry away, but I implore you all to at least consider my words. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. In this case, both Harry and we will have to endure doing what we don't like - Harry coming back and we bringing him back. But it simply has to be done, for the good of the Light. Today, you choose between a single boy's comfort and the lives of your friends, spouses, children... the future of our entire world. I know you will make the right decision," Albus finished his speech gravely.

"Albus you have to... we have to find him and get him back," Molly sobbed from Arthur's shoulder. "I mean, you know that trouble seems to follow him wherever he goes. He has already nearly gotten killed two of my own babies and Sirius..." A few people close to Harry gave her disapproving looks. "I mean, he is a good boy, don't get me wrong. But he is so headstrong and rash sometimes. We need to keep him safe, _from himself_. The last thing we need is him to go out on another one of his crazy adventures and once again endanger himself..." Molly paused, biting her tongue. "And those around him," she added quietly.

Albus gave her a nod, followed with a sad smile. _That's good. Molly will bring her henpecked husband in, along with a few more Ministry men Arthur had initiated._

"I agree with the Headmaster," said Snape curtly, stepping in from the corner of the room. "That immature brat had once again broken the rules, putting us all in danger. Why are you all still putting up with him, I'll never know. Why, if it was up to me, I..." Dumbledore's pointed look stopped Snape's building rant. He bit his tongue and said through gritted teeth. "...I would put every resource available into finding the boy and keeping him safe," he finished bitterly and retreated into his corner to sulk alone.

_Of course, Severus wouldn't mind dragging Harry in, kicking and screaming, but I can't allow him to make this into a personal vendetta. We must capture Harry to protect him, not to punish him_, thought Albus.

"I would have to agree with the Headmaster," said McGonagall through pursed lips. "Although it pains me to see one of my student's rights violated, we must do this for his own protection. I would rather have Harry alive and mad at us, then tortured and dead," she nodded in emphasis and sat down stiffly. Many of her ex students nodded along with her.

_Ahh, good old Minerva. Her legendary impartiality carries a lot of weight. Good thing I have her eating from the palm of my hand_, thought Albus happily.

Figuring that enough arguments were made for his cause, Dumbledore decided to cut the discussion short. _No need to risk someone speaking against the proposition,_ he mused.

"Very well, we seem to have the majority. Is there really the need to put this up for vote?" Albus scanned the room and saw that most of the people were shaking their heads, quietly agreeing with him. Several were just sitting silently and waiting for further instructions, already deeming the matter settled. Only a few law worshipers who knew nothing of Harry's importance seemed less then pleased with the decision, but Albus saw that they would keep quiet and accept their obvious defeat. "Good, than it's settled," he said cheerfully and let some of his twinkle return.

Oh, this was a fine match. Not amongst his best, but surely worthy of remembrance. He will definitely extract this memory later tonight and store it for safekeeping; You never know when you might need a reminder of a brilliant victory to lift up your spirits after a crushing defeat.

Albus had in his pensive, amongst other memories, a collection of crucial moments he had experienced during his long life. He already had more than 300 titbits of situations in which he had given a smart speech, or made a good manoeuvre, or won a duel and generally turned the situation into his favour. This year, Albus had already archived two crucial events. The first one was his duel with Fudge and Dawlish in his office. The second was his duel with Voldemort in the Ministry of Magic and subsequent argument with Harry in his office.

Today's discussion probably won't earn itself a permanent place in the records, but it would definitely stay there long enough for Albus to go over it several times and carefully analyze reactions of the crowd at his every move. He would pay special attention to those displeased with his decision and try to decipher at which point he had lost them. He _was_ a master of manipulation, but even masters can improve their technique.

Snapping away from his happy musings, Albus started directing his men into teams and preparing them to move their search operation over to Australia. He had been hopeful that they would find Harry lodging in one of the taverns here in England, but in retrospect, he should have expected something like this. Young Harry has had a tough life, and in the years to come, it was only going to get tougher. If anyone deserved a break, it was he. Albus was certain that his men would find Harry in a couple of days, sunbathing on some beach in Australia, trying to put all his problems away.

_Hmm, not that it's such a bad idea, now that I think about it_, he mused. _I could easily be persuaded to let Harry stay there for a couple of more days, under our protection, of course. After all, the boy could use a few more days of peace, before putting him back under the spotlight. _

Albus thought about this idea further and found it rather agreeable. _Yes, I wouldn't lose anything and it could go a long way towards breaching the gap between us_¸ he concluded, before shaking his thoughts away and turning back to the practical matters at hand.

_I'll think about this when the boy is found out_, Albus concluded. _No use planning the feast while the prey is still in the forest._

Little did he know at time how correct he was.

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**Author notes  
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**EDIT: This chapter had been edited after the posting of chapter 8. Grammar and writing style were (hopefully) improved a bit, but the plot remained the same. **

**o - Circumspector deprehensio spell **

I've gotten an idea for this spell from an article I've read some time ago. It was about Americans researching a device that could pinpoint snipers by projecting laser beams through its scope... or some other techno-crap like that. I don't know what happened with that, but it's an interesting idea nonetheless.

**o - Possible plot hole **

I realized there's a possible plot hole with Harry submitting his Guardian permits to the Ministry, without Dumbledore finding out about it. Any normal ministry would have probably sent Dumbledore an owl, informing him that his 'services' concerning Harry were no longer required. Well, you'll just have to imagine that this Ministry is very, very, VERY incompetent and leave it at that :-).

**o - Sources and additional disclaimers **

I forgot to mention it before, but usage of magical tents for practice is mentioned in Old Nick's "The Rise of the Gray Lord" (2091668) (It's now taken over by TheDarkestAngel16). It's a really good fic, that had gotten tangled up with HHr romance and angst in its later chapters and then abandoned. I have high hopes with it now that it's taken up again.

The encyclopaedia I used for reference is Britannica 2005.

I don't own any intellectual property mentioned above.


	5. Mind games

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**Potter's Resistance 1: Breaking Ties **

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**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic, and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to Harry Potter.

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**Chapter 5: Mind games  
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_Muggle and wizarding slums aren't all that different_, Harry thought, as he confidently walked down the street in one of the poorest parts of London's East End area. His clothes were of muggle makeup, but other than that, little else was different from usual - one had to radiate the same kind of attitude in both the Knockturn Alley and this overpopulated industrial ghetto. Beggars, street vendors, grim factory workers, old war heroes sitting by the sidewalk, kids playing football on the streets and an occasional bobby, keeping to the brighter and busier intersections, were regular sights in this neighbourhood.

But Harry quickly steered away from the lively street and went deeper into the dingy alleys, where once upon a time, Jack the Ripper sought out his victims. The more colourful sort of people could be found here - hookers, thugs, drunken bums, and... _Yes, they'll do nicely_, Harry thought as he spotted a pair of potential targets.

There were two of them, the Brain and the Muscle, as Harry mentally dubbed them. They kept near the entrance of a foreboding looking pub, trying to interest patrons in buying some of their 'stuff'. The thinner one was currently smoking a cigarette, leaning against the wall and chatting with a sickly-looking girl dressed like a prostitute. He was wearing sunglasses and a nice leather jacket, in which he kept several types of drugs he had for sale, as well as a few holstered weapons. His bodyguard was a big bald guy, dressed in loose black clothes, with the mandatory leather jacket. He was looming behind his boss with his arms crossed, glaring at the girl, as if daring her to try something.

Harry mentally confirmed his decision and then glanced at his phoenix sitting on a nearby roof. The bird was keeping a keen eye on him, but Harry paid him no mind. He has already gotten used to the annoying voyeur, following him wherever he went.

_I just hope he doesn't make a big fuss with what I'm about to do_, Harry thought, before making a beeline towards the two drug dealers.

"Oh come on Jazz, I'll bring the rest of the money in a week, I swear on my mother's soul. You know I'm good for it!" the girl wailed at the smaller guy. She seemed very nervous and shaky. She had large bags under her eyes, which she unsuccessfully tried to cover up with layers of makeup.

"Sorry Crystal, babe, you know the drill. Cash for the stash," replied Jazz nonchalantly.

"But I _need_ it, Jazzy! Come on, I'll even give you a little advance," she purred while showing off her 'goods'.

Jazz eyed her lazily. "Sorry to say it babe, but you don't have much to show off," he drawled, making her look down in embarrassment while covering herself up. "How are you with giving head?" he asked her offhandedly.

She immediately brightened. "Yeah, blowjobs are my specialty," she said sweetly, licking her lips.

Jazz sighed and asked his associate. "How 'bout it, Cueball? Up for some tunnel-diving?"

Cueball smiled greasily. "Sure thing Jazz, you know I'm always up for a good dick-wash... heh... get it? Always UP!" he snickered, making his fat jiggle.

At this point, Harry approached the drug dealers and cleared his throat. "I would like to do some business with you gentlemen... in private," he said pointedly to the 'brain' of the duo.

Both men exchanged looks and then snickered at Harry's use of proper language. Considering the people they usually dealt with, they had gotten used to the street slang and barely coherent mutterings of drug addicts in withdrawal.

"Beat it kid, we're busy right now," Jazz said dismissively, as his goon stepped up in front of him protectively.

Harry exposed a big stack of cash sticking from his pocket and said smoothly, "Did I mention it's a very, very profitable kind of business?"

Their disposition immediately shifted 180 degrees. Cueball looked confusedly at his boss, who literally drooled at the thick wad of money, his eyes wide with greed. Harry could almost imagine seeing dollar signs in the thug's pupils. "Go away Crystal, we'll speak later," Jazz said distractedly.

"But Jazzy, we had a deal, baby!" she wailed, attaching herself to the drug-dealer, desperate for a fix.

Harry put the money back in his pocket, breaking the drug dealer's daze. Jazz looked down and seemed startled when he realized Crystal was hanging on his arm with a pleading look in her eyes. He roughly pushed her away and yelled, "Go away you cheap slut, we don't have time for the likes of you! Go find someone on your own level to bother!"

"Fine! Fine! I'll go!" she yelled. "You probably couldn't even get it up, you... you... _faggot_!" she screamed, pointing her shaky finger at Jazz.

Cueball drew a switchblade from his pocket and took a few menacing steps towards the hysterical girl. "Jazz told you to get lost, bitch. So scram, before I leave some permanent make up on that ugly mug you call face," he muttered.

She sneered once again at the group, then promptly turned and stalked away. "Fat piece of shit, probably hasn't seen his dick in years. How'd he expected me to work under all that fat, I'll never know..." she grumbled while stumbling down the street, out to find some other dealer to do her business with.

"Alright kid, you've got my ear. Shoot," said Jazz importantly, desperately trying to play the role of a big shot, instead of street lowlife that he was.

"Not here. Is there some place more... private?" asked Harry seriously.

"Yeah, right behind the corner," Jazz nodded his head towards the closed off alley Harry was aiming at all along.

"Well? Lead the way," said Harry impatiently.

Jazz eyed Harry suspiciously but then nodded to Cueball and started walking towards the alley. Cueball was hanging behind and keeping a keen eye on his boss' suspicious customer. Harry pulled out his wand and nonchalantly cast a few muggle-repellent charms on the entrance, as he and the drug dealers entered the alley.

"What's that?" asked Cueball suspiciously, eyeing Harry's wand.

"Oh? Just my Chinese good-luck charm," replied Harry, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Cueball gave Harry a confused look, but seeing that the stick couldn't possibly be a threat, he let it go.

"Alright," said Jazz, when they reached the end of the alley. "What do you need kid? I hope it's not just a shit load of pot for all your little school buddies."

Harry turned around and inspected the entrance, twirling the wand in his hand. Once he made sure there were no witnesses, he promptly fired two stunners at the unsuspecting muggles. They barely had time to form confused expressions on their faces, before the red light hit them and everything went black.

_Now for the hard part_, Harry sighed mentally. He had practiced this spell at home, but for obvious reasons, this was the first time he was about to try it on a real target.

"_Transfigo homo ad ossis converto!_" he said firmly, doing complex wand movements and projecting a strong mental image of the desired results. He had gotten the idea for this spell from Barty Crouch Jr., who had used something similar to hide his father's corpse. The only difference was that this spell was supposed to create a bone out of a living human, instead of a dead body. Not exactly a simple piece of magic and seeing how transfiguration had never been Harry's forte...

"Shit!" he cursed, when he saw the result of his casting, which looked rather like an Elephant-man. Harry quickly reversed the transfiguration, thankful that creator of the spell had integrated a bunch of fail-safe measures against killing the subject. Harry tried again and this time got a rather large bone, with human head on one end of it. He managed something resembling the correct result on his third try. He was satisfied only on fourth. The bone looked kind of shabby and unnaturally large, but it was good enough for Harry's purpose. He quickly inspected his wristwatch and sighed in relief when he saw it had taken him only a few minutes to perfect the spell.

_That half an hour of dry-practice back in the tent surely came in handy now_, he mused.

With a practiced ease, Harry proceeded to transfigure Cueball's body as well, ending up with an even larger bone. If someone saw him now, they would have probably assumed he was smuggling dinosaur remains. Harry quickly stashed both bones in his backpack and walked out of the alley, looking for a cab. He would have only two to three hours before the transfiguration wore out, and he had every intention of being at his destination point when that happened.

**

* * *

**

Forty-five minutes later found Harry in front of an old warehouse, in the industrial wasteland of Bexley, southeast of London. The warehouse looked old and abandoned, surrounded by huge factories of heavy industry. But that's exactly the way Harry wanted it - unobtrusive and out of the way. Ridiculously cheap lease was an additional but more than welcome boon of the object's unattractive location.

Harry strode to a chained steel door and with a quick unlocking spell, let himself in. He found himself inside a huge hall, which had once upon a time been used as a warehouse, but now it was mostly empty. The blue phoenix followed him in and flew a few circles around the room, inspecting it thoroughly. It seemed completely desolate and useless, but a careful observer would have noticed tiny runes carved along the hall's borderline walls.

Harry was far from an expert on runes - seeing how he had foolishly dropped the preliminary subject 'Ancient Runes' back in his third year - but the whole process of placing this set was so nicely explained in Anarchia, that even an idiot could follow it through. This particular combination should block out most of the raw magic leaking from Harry's spells, thus preventing the Ministry's sensors from detecting anything suspicious. Magical radiation wasn't a problem in Diagon Alley, since the air around there was already saturated with a high level of residual magic. But for any kind of magical work in the muggle areas, wards like this were an absolute necessity. Of course, a basic ward such as this could only reduce the amount of magical leakage, not stop it completely. Eventually, the Ministry will notice a higher level of magical activity in the area and send someone in to investigate. Harry had every intention of being long gone before that happened.

After a brief inspection of wards around the premises, Harry dropped the two bones in the centre of the hall and reversed them back into humans. He then started rummaging through the drug dealers' possessions, 'releasing' them from anything that could potentially be used as a weapon, or that he simply wanted to keep for himself. From Jazz, Harry retrieved two pistols, their holsters, six clips of ammunition, a switchblade, close to 1,500 pounds, an ID card, a passport, a cellular phone, a Zippo lighter and a leather phonebook with information on various useful contacts from the London underground. He also confiscated a small pack with no more than 200g of heroine and a larger bag, with maybe 1kg of pot in it. After a moment of thought, he stripped Jazz of his leather jacket and sunglasses; He figured they would fit perfectly with his muggle wardrobe.

Done with the first dealer, Harry proceeded to frisk Cueball, puffing a bit when he had to turn him over. He ended up retrieving a mean-looking revolver, a bunch of bullets, less than 200 quid, an ID card, brass knuckles and two switchblades. Done with the search, he donned Jazz's leather jacket and threw everything else into his enchanted backpack. He then took out his wand and tied the two muggles up in some magical ropes, before reviving them.

Two dealers stirred and looked around confusedly. They briefly struggled against the ropes and then spotted Harry looming over them.

"What... What the hell you think you're doing kid? Do you have any idea who you're dealing with!? D'you have a death wish or something!?" yelled Jazz from the floor.

Harry eyed him impassively, mentally going through today's training regimen. He had a specific purpose on mind for later that night, and he couldn't afford to waste his time on explaining himself to these two idiots. He once again checked his appearance, making sure that neither his morphed face nor the disguised wand could connect him in any way with Harry Potter. He really didn't need his actions today to loom over his head for the rest of his life. Memory charms were useful, but even the strongest of them can be broken, given enough time and effort.

Deeming himself ready, Harry pointed his wand at Cueball, who looked more confused than afraid, and forcefully said, "Imperio!"

Cueball's eyes immediately glazed over, and Harry felt something akin to a bubble forming in his mind. He tried to do something with it, but it suddenly slipped like a wet soap and the spell was broken. Harry tried again and this time, he got a firmer hold of it. He tried to tell Cueball to open and close his eyes, but as soon as he pushed a bit magic into the bubble, it disappeared.

_This is gonna be a long day_, he sighed. Harry ignored Jazz's repeated demands for an explanation and Cueball's even more confused and somewhat fearful expression, and continued with his training.

During his practice, Harry kept throwing anxious glances at the blue phoenix perched on a nearby crate, but the bird seemed strangely unconcerned by Harry's not so legal or moral actions. He just kept staring at the scene with those large, curious eyes, not even batting an eyelash when Harry started casting the curse deemed evil by most of the Wizarding society.

_Maybe it's just the fact that no one is truly hurt by being kept under the Imperius_, Harry mused. _I guess phoenixes don't have the same standards as we humans do... Either that or the damn bird simply doesn't give a shit what magic I'm using._

Shaking his head, Harry decided to postpone that deliberation for some other time. Apathy was perfectly fine with him. As long as the phoenix didn't try to get in his way, he could follow him around and observe as much as he wanted.

It took Harry almost an hour to improve his Imperius curse enough to keep someone under it for a prolonged period of time, as long as his orders were relatively harmless. But as soon as Harry told his test subjects to do something they were firmly averse to (like when he told Jazz to give Cueball head, seeing how the big guy had been deprived of it earlier), their resistance would get too strong, making the bubble slip away.

At that point, Harry realized that the Imperius curse was much more advanced and complicated than he had expected, and that he would need a lot more practice to master it completely. At the moment, he could potentially control a muggle or some weak-minded wizard, but not much more than that. Still, Harry deemed his current skill with the curse acceptable for the time being and decided to postpone any further Imperius practice to some later session.

_One done, two more to go_, Harry mused, as he observed the snivelling drug-dealers. Taking a deep breath and trying to clear his mind, Harry pointed his wand at Cueball's forehead and yelled, "LEGILIMENS!"

He felt as if his mind has flown out and slammed into Cueball's forehead, but other than that, nothing else happened. After a few more tries, Harry got his first results, a few snippets of his target beating up small kids and stealing their lunch money. After half an hour of relentless practice, Harry had finally improved his spell-casting enough, that he was able to browse through his target's visual memories at will. Sure, his navigation was mostly random and any amount of magic would have probably expelled him easily, but it was as good as it would get while practicing on muggles.

_This is not my main focus today, anyway_, Harry decided, deeming his skill with the Legilimens spell as good as it could get for the time being.

He glanced at his wristwatch and saw that it was already half past six. He had spent almost two hours getting the hang of the previous two spells. He only hoped he would have enough time to learn the final and the most important spell that evening.

Harry sighed as he took another look at his 'test subjects'. Both men were beyond the point of hysterics now. They just numbly stared at the 'devil reincarnate', waiting to see what 'demonic power' he would use at them next. Harry shook his head and tried to concentrate. He pointed his wand at Jazz's forehead, whose eyes widened in fear, and said clearly, "Oblivate."

He immediately felt his mind hitting the subject's and trying to merge, exactly like with the Legilimens curse. He was actually so surprised that his concentration slipped, breaking the spell. Harry blinked once and then tried again. This time, he got through and saw that the spell was moving backwards through Jazz's memories. It was obviously intended to be used for erasing muggle's minds after some magical accident, where the Oblivators would only have to cut off the last couple of minutes. As instructed, Harry tried to order the spell to stop and enclose the 'selected' section in a bubble. He once again got the feeling of a 'wet soap' and the spell broke.

It took Harry almost half an hour of trying, before he was able to correctly isolate the last couple of minutes of Cueball's life and encase them in a magical bubble, so that they couldn't be accessed. It was an incredibly crude job, easy to detect and even easier to restore, but Harry couldn't help but sigh in relief. With this newfound working knowledge of Oblivation, he would be able to hide this little 'training session' from the authorities and get away undetected. Furthermore, he would be able to go on with the second part of his daily agenda.

Harry tried the Oblivation spell a few more time, polishing the rough edges, before deeming it good enough for the time being. There was a lot more finesse to this technique, like fortifying the bubbles, making them untraceable or planting fake memories. Thankfully, none of these tricks were strictly necessary for what Harry intended to do later that day.

Besides, there was no need to rush. Satisfied with his quick progress, Harry had already decided to organize more of these 'practical' training sessions in the future. This was really the best way to gain the basic grounding with the spells that required live human targets. He was certain that even the so-called 'muggle lovers' used their friendly magic-less neighbours for such purposes. After all, what was the harm in some realistic target practice, as long as the subjects remained unharmed? It's not like they could get permanently traumatised by things they can't remember.

Deciding to end the session, Harry Oblivated both muggles from anything beyond the point where he had led them to the alley and then quickly stunned them. He then transfigured them back into dinosaur bones - this time getting much better and smaller results - and stuffed them into his enchanted backpack. After rechecking that nothing was left amiss in the warehouse, Harry exited the building and sat by the road, waiting for the taxi he had ordered earlier to arrive.

_Damn, I definitely need my own car_, Harry mused idly. Using muggle transportation was a hassle, but at the moment, he had no other option. He couldn't practice Apparation without someone around to fix him up in case he gets splinched. He definitely wasn't feeling like testing his fake identity with the Ministry's Magical Reversal Squad. Knight Bus was also not an option. He learned that the hard way, when he tried to summon it for the first time after blocking the trackers on his old wand. It seems that the Knight Bus summoning system works by relaying a silent request over the Ministry's tracer back to the tracking centre and then up to the bus itself. With a blocking solution on the wand, these requests simply couldn't get through.

_If at least that good-for-nothing bird would allow me near him, maybe I could hitch a ride_, Harry mused, glaring at his Phoenix perched across the street.

Shaking his head from these musings, Harry reviewed his plans for the evening. He would first bring the muggles back to that alley and leave them there. With some luck, they would think that he had knocked them out, mugged them and left them there unconscious. He would then return home and leave all the nice things he had taken from the drug dealers in his stash. Finally, he would go to the Diagon Alley and proceed with the second part of his daily agenda.

It has been almost a week since Dumbledore had discovered his escape and moved his search to Australia. Harry suspected that the old man was getting quite restless and suspicious by now. After so much time without results, he just might decide to retrace his steps and dig deeper through the clues Harry had left for him to find. If that happened, Dumbledore would definitely discover that Harry had in fact never left England. He would then move his search operation back here, bringing a whole lot of unwelcome heat on Harry's back. Besides, Harry rather liked the thought of that meddling bastard wasting his resources by looking in the wrong place, while his target is basking right under his very nose.

That's why Harry had decided to make an appearance in Australia and fortify the impression he was truly there. He already had it all planed out - a fake identity, one-day visiting permit and a portkey scheduled to activate at 10 pm that evening, all of which were waiting for him back at the Kontiki travel agency in Diagon Alley. Now that he had a basic working knowledge of Oblivation under his belt, he was finally ready to go through with his scheme. If everything went according to the plan, this little trip could easily buy him another week or two of chasers-free time. Not to mention give Dumbledore a mighty headache and possible make a dent in his budget.

_I hope the Old Crew wouldn't mind spending some time in the nature... On good ol' Dumble's expense, of course_, Harry smirked mentally when he saw his taxi approaching. This would definitely prove to be an interesting day for his 'minders'.

**

* * *

**

Magical Community Hall in Cairns was central hub of wizarding activity in the whole of North-Eastern Australia. From the outside, it looked like just another poor souvenir shop - nothing special in a big tourist centre that Cairns certainly was. But on the inside, behind the barrier of Muggle-Repellent charms, it had all the necessities a Wizard could ever need - Apparation and Floo stations, a tavern with rooms for rent and nice meals, government facilities, with the Sheriff's and the Mayer's office, and, of course, a general store with a variety of Wizarding goods for sale.

That exact store was currently completely devoid of any customers. The only person inside it was the shop owner, Gibbon Lockyer - an older, skinny man, with thinning unkempt hair and rat-like face. He was currently having a nice, peaceful morning, lolled in his reclining chair, with his feet high upon the counter and morning papers clenched in his hands. Business was always slow before; He rarely had anything to do in the mornings, other than Oblivate an occasional stray muggle tourist shopping for souvenirs. That's why he was rather annoyed when he heard someone entering the store, approaching the counter and clearing his through to get attention.

"Tavern is to the right, offices upstairs, Floo and Apparation station are accessed from the tavern, working hours from 8h to 22h, Sunday to 15h," he droned boredly, without even looking up from the funny pages.

"Actually I was wondering whether I could possibly buy a thing or two," asked a youngish voice, with pronounced English accent.

_Oh no, not another stray tourist_, Gibbon grumbled mentally. _When you think you need to be somewhere else, then go there, for crying out loud! Some muggles are just too damn stubborn for their own good._

He was just about to pull out his wand and Oblivate the annoying pest, when, for the first time, he took a note of the offender's appearance. He was a reasonably tall lad, dressed in gray khakis and red t-shirt. He was also carrying a huge Army backpack on his back. But what captured the storeowner's attention the most was his shaggy black hair, startling green eyes and a most peculiar bolt-shaped scar on his forehead. Gibbon's mouth hang open stupidly, as his eyes travelled over the boy's face, then upwards, to his scar and finally below the counter, where just the other day he had pinned a photograph of exactly the same lad as was now standing before him. Gibbon just couldn't believe his luck. All the scoundrels in magical Australia were desperately searching for this rich runaway kid, and here he was, right in his shop, ripe for picking. He had no clue what was the boy's name, why was he running away, or what will his seekers do to him once they find him, but he honestly couldn't care less. He will only make a simple fire-call and collect his prize. What others would do to the boy afterwards was not his concern.

"Err, sir? Are you alright?" asked the boy with apparent confusion.

"Ya', of course, lad. What can old Gibbon do for you?" he asked, giving the boy his widest smile.

"Well, sir, I was planning on taking a small trip through the rainforest and I wanted to see whether you have any books on survival in the wilderness?"

"Books, ay? Well, I thing I have just the thing you need," said Gibbon as he stood up and retrieved a moderately thick volume from the only bookshelf in the shop. The title was _'Freedom in wilderness'_, by Layton Wild. "In here you have all sorts of spells to use in the wild - to cover your tracks, block smell, avoid wildlife, prepare food, everything. This bloke who wrote the book, he did it all, saw it all and lived to tell the tale. So he damn well knows what he's talkin' about."

"Yeah, that sounds great, I think I'll take it," said Harry, while inspecting other books available for sale. He let the storeowner study him curiously, while he selected the two most advanced books on Aboriginal magic he was able to find. Harry heard that Aborigines had specialized themselves in _Dream Magic_, an area that western civilization knew practically nothing about. Harry understood that these books were written by western explorers and that they would probably teach him nothing about practical aspects of this obscure discipline, but there was still a chance he would find at least something useful.

Harry added these two books to the counter and asked for the total price.

"That'd be 23 galleons," replied Gibbon. "Err, lad... You're not planning on going out hiking in the rainforest on your own, are you?"

"Yes I am actually. I mean, why not? It's no fun having some bloke lead you by the hand wherever you go, right?" countered Harry, while handing out the money. "Besides, I'm not going out there blind. This is a top-notch survival pack I have here on my back. With this book you've just sold me, I'm all about ready to start with the trip," he said while storing his new books in the backpack.

"Besides," he added, "before I go adventuring, I'm planning on riding over the whole area in that Skyrail thing your muggles have. Actually, a cab is waiting for me right outside to take me there. So, no worries, right?" Harry said, giving the old man a winning smile.

Gibbon smiled even wider, if that was even possible. Stupid boy had just given him 1,000 galleons worth of finder's fee on a silver platter. "Sure thing, kid. Good luck on your trip!"

"Of course, sir. Good day."

"G'day," replied Gibbon, while his feet where already carrying him to a public Floo station. He entered the room and approached one of the smaller fireplaces, used only for fire-talk. He threw in some floo powder, stuck his head into the green flames and called "Feroll Bold's residence!"

**

* * *

**

Albus Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, aimlessly staring through the window of his office. He tried to concentrate on finishing his piled up paperwork, he honestly did; It was simply of no use. He just couldn't get over the fact that the main piece on the chessboard was out there somewhere, completely out of his control. It has already been a week since the search had moved on to Australia, and there was still no trace of the boy. Albus was already on verge of altering his strategy and bringing in a few new pieces into the game.

His contemplation was rudely interrupted by the fireplace coming to life and a haggard head appearing in the green flames. The man had shaggy grey beard, a huge scar over his left cheek and steely grey eyes barely visible behind the rim of a leather cowboy hat.

"Mr. Bold, how nice to see you. I believe you have something to report?" said Albus without his usual warmness, as he stood up and walked to the fireplace. Unlike his minions - upon whom Albus looked with characteristic warmness, as a child would look at his favourite toys - this man was nobody's fool and especially not Dumbledore's. Actually, he was considered for one of the best bounty hunters in the whole Commonwealth. Feroll Bold had on his disposal a vast intelligence network spread throughout the British colonies. Dozens of informants kept an eye on all the major wizarding hubs, tipping him off if they saw anyone from his hit list. Feroll would then follow the trail of his pray like a rabid dog and retrieve only pieces big enough for identification, so he could collect his prize. As much as Albus disliked the idea of implicating his name with such man, his vast intelligence network in Australia made it a necessity in this operation. Thankfully, Albus requested only the information about Harry's whereabouts, not the actual capture. After all, he still needed the boy in one piece.

"Mr. Dumbledore," Bold inclined his head slightly. "I have located the subject."

Dumbledore just raised his eyebrow, his body keeping a nonchalant pose, with his hands behind his back. He was trying to rely an impression that he was interested in Harry's whereabouts purely for academic purposes, and not because all of his plans relayed on the boy's retrieval. Somehow, he doubted that Bold had bought his act.

"Have your team speak with Gibbon Lockyer, storeowner in Cairns Magical Community Hall, north-eastern Australia. Time is of essence," Bold said coldly at Dumbledore's gesture. "Now, I would be very disappointed if you happen to forget a small matter of the finder's fee. And trust me, you wouldn't want to see me disappointed," he sneered slightly.

"Yes, you will get your money, Mr. Bold. Good day," replied Albus dismissively as he taped his main Order pendant. After Bold disappeared from his fireplace, Albus sat back at his desk and quickly wrote a message. He checked his clock and nodded. Exactly two minutes had passed since the summons over the amulet.

"Fawkes," he called his familiar and handed him the message. "You know what to do, you have their tracer".

The majestic bird nodded and disappeared in a burst of flames.

_Now, comes the hard part - waiting_, Dumbledore sighed. He then retrieved his customized chess-set from a secret drawer of his desk and started a game against himself.

**

* * *

**

A small silver instrument was gently twirling and wheezing on a table inside a spacious muggle bungalow in Melbourne. That was the only personalized object in the living room of the building that served as a field headquarters in the Order of the Phoenix's search operation. The rest of the apartment was bare, save for a few discarded items here and there. This was perfectly understandable, seeing how the Order agents used this bungalow primarily for sleeping and meetings. The rest of their time, they spent jumping all over Australia, in a futile effort to locate their escaped charge.

Relative silence was rudely interrupted by a loud cracking sound of Apparation, signalling Mad-Eye Moody's arrival to the room. Seconds later, with another loud bang, Severus Snape appeared besides Moody, who jumped two feet away and drew his wand. Both men eyed each other warily, before Moody gave Snape a victorious smirk, which looked truly hideous on his scared face. Snape scowled viciously in return, irritated that the retired Auror had arrived before him, thus proving he was more punctual than the strict Potion Master. That said, both men retreated to their respective corners of the room, guarding their backs against the walls and awaiting for their comrades' arrival.

During the course of the next minute, Kingsley, Tonks and Podmore apparated into the room and started talking quietly amongst themselves, trying to guess what was the reason behind their prompt summons to the Order's predesigned meeting place. Finally, twin cracks signalled the arrival of the Order's two youngest members besides the Weasley twins, Terrence Higgs and Phillip McLaggen.

Terrence and Phillip had been best friends since their early childhood. They'd met when they were only four years old, on one of the many hunting expeditions that Terrence's uncle Tiberius Ogden and Phillip's dad, Bertie Higgs were known to organize. Every time they met, their friendship grew stronger, until they became truly inseparable. When they went to Hogwarts, they were sorted into different houses, Higgs in Slytherin and McLaggen in Gryffindor, as by their families' traditions. Still, they never let the house rivalry get between their comradeship, thus becoming one of the rare examples of successful Gryffindor-Slytherin friendships in the recent Hogwarts history.

After leaving the school, they applied together for the Auror training. They easily managed to pass the muster, thanks to the firm support of another hunting friend of their father and uncle, Rufus Scrimgeour. They decided to join the Order only a few months ago, after experiencing their first clash with the Ministry's bureaucracy. After all, young men such as them were better suited for action and adventure, rather than strict rules and written reports.

The gathered Order members stood there in silence, awaiting further instructions. Exactly two minutes after their amulets had started signalling them to retreat to the safe house, there was a flash of flame and Fawkes appeared in the room. The Phoenix circled the room once, dropped the message on the table and disappeared, presumably back to his bonded.

Kingsley, as unofficial leader of the group, picked up the message and read it, his eyes widening as he scanned through it. "Albus has a lead on Harry. We're going to Cairns, up in the north. Our contact is Gibbon Lockyer, storeowner in the local Community Hall. We must hurry," he barked hurriedly to the intrigued crowd around him.

"I'm on it," said Tonks as she stumbled to a nearby cupboard and retrieved a copy of Australian Apparation Index from the top drawer. She swiftly scanned through pages until she located the associated image for the Cairns Apparation point. It was a kangaroo, carrying a spear in his sack, an exotic-looking fish in his left and a pink tropical flower in his right hand. Tonks just shook her head and then placed the book on the table, so everyone could see and memorize the image.

_They should really fire the guy who designs these things_, she thought, as she tried to commit every element of the drawing to her memory.

Of course, the most natural way to apparate is by simply projecting the destination in one's mind and then funnelling the magic through the silent incantation. The major problem with this method is that it works only for locations one had visited before - that's the only way to properly visualize a location. To overcome this, wizards came up with an ingenious idea - an _apparation beacon_. Basically, it's a spell that 'associates' a location in the real world with a pre-set two-dimensional picture - a picture that, unlike the actual world, can be copied, printed and shared amongst wizards, thus making distant Apparation locations easily accessible.

Of course, this image must be not only unique in the entire world, but also unnatural and surreal, so that it couldn't be accidently confused by something in the nature. If you just used a photo of a tree as a beacon, for example, there was a good chance that you would end up Merlin knows where, by some random tree on the planet. That's also the reason why one couldn't just apparate by using a photograph of the destination. Photos simply lack too many essential parts of the reality - a full panoramic view of the surrounding, smells, sounds and so on. The only way a photograph can be used as the focus for Apparation is if it's attached to a beacon.

"All ready," asked Kingsley, at which he received positive nods.

"Alright. Let's go," he said and apparated keeping in mind image of a kangaroo with a spear in his sack and a flower and goldfish in his hands.

**

* * *

**

Gibbon Lockyer's peace and quiet was once again interrupted when a strange procession of six wizards and one witch marched into his store. He was just about to shoo them away, when he realized that these could be the mercenaries Bold had told him to expect.

"Gibbon Lockyer?" asked an imposing black man, who was acting as the group's leader.

"Took you long enough. The boy left almost 10 minutes ago," replied Gibbon.

"Are you sure it was him?" asked Kingsley, ignoring the comment.

"'Course I'm sure. He had the scar and everything, same as on the photo."

"What did he come here for?" Kingsley asked hurriedly. With every second, Harry was getting further and further away, but they needed all the info they could get before moving on.

"Bought a book on survival in the wilderness and two more advanced books, on boong magic or something," Gibbon replied. "Said he needed it for hiking in the rainforest, if you'd believe the dumb kid." he sniggered, earning what seemed as a sneer of agreement from Snape.

"Do you know where he's now?" Kingsley asked the million-dollar question.

"What if I do?" countered Gibbon, greed in his eyes. "What it's worth to you?"

However, Kingsley wasn't so easily swayed. He was well aware where did this tip came from and who was already skimming the Order funds for it. "Mr. Lockyer," he said stiffly, "I'm well aware that Mr. Bold had already taken payment for this information. Right now, he's counting on you to keep up his good name by providing it. You wouldn't want to disappoint Mr. Bold now, would you?"

Gibbon paled and blurted out, "He said he was going to that muggle contraption, Skyrail, to take a tour over the forest."

"And pray tell, where can we find this... _Skyrail_?" asked Snape with a sneer.

"I think that starting station is some 10km north of the city. Caravonica. It's called Caravonica." Gibbon replied quickly.

"Have you ever been there?" asked Snape, already preparing himself for memory extraction.

"No, of course not. And you won't find anyone around here who did," the storeowner sneered when Snape started looking around for another victim. "No self respecting Aussie would even approach one of those damn tourist traps. And least of all a wizard."

"Damn," blurted Tonks. "Then, how are we supposed to get there?"

"I suggest you take a cab, like your freakin' lil' runaway did," sneered Gibbon, completely losing his patience. "Now, if that's all, I have more important business to attend to, rather than chit-chatting with a bunch of annoying, Pommy cheapskates!"

When he finished his tirade, the Order agents were already on their way out of the shop, listening to Tonks' explanation on how to acquire a taxi.

**

* * *

**

Ten minutes later, the Order's retrieval team was standing in front of Caravonica Skyrail station. They observed tourist busses and other vehicles parked around, while Snape Oblivated their cab driver and retrieved the fake 500 pounds he had bribed him with to drive faster.

The group briskly walked into the building and approached the departure terminal. Kingsley quickly located a smiling female attendant, who was busy checking tickets and assisting people with boarding into a gondola cabin. He made a beeline towards her and pulled out a fake Australian Federal Police badge.

"Miss... Hilary," Kingsley said officially, after looking at her nametag. "Inspector Kingsley, AFP. May we have a word in private?"

"Err, certainly, sir... Lucy, would you please take over for a minute? Thanks!" she said and then led the group to a secluded corner of the terminal.

"Have you seen this boy in last half an hour?" asked Kingsley as he pulled out Harry's photograph and showed it to the girl.

"Hmm... Yes, I remember him. He asked me where he could exchange British Pounds for Australian Dollars. I believe he embarked with previous cabin, which was some 10 minutes ago. By now, he should already be at the Red Peak substation, at the edge of the rainforest," she finished explanation in a trained bubbly voice.

"Have you ever travelled in this... train before?" asked Snape with a sneer.

"Yes, of course. That's a pre-requirement..." That was as far as she made it, since Snape pulled out his wand in a flash and hissed "Legilimens!"

Snape first browsed through Hilary's most recent memories. He saw her inspecting tickets for the previous cabin, letting in an Asian couple and a distracted muggle with a notebook. She was for a while busy with checking their names on a departure list. "Chiang and Hoshiko Nariaki, check! Fritz Erzberger, check!" Someone cleared his throat, making her look up and there he was! Potter was asking where he could exchange his money, just like the girl had said he was. Having heard the answer, the boy left somewhere out of the girl's eyesight, only to return a few minutes later. He and another man with a raincoat and explorer's hat on his head, showed their tickets to the lady. Hilary checked them in and circled their reservation names on the list, "Ian Paul Freely" for the other man and "Boyle Livingston" for Potter.

_Boyle Livingston... Boy Living... The Boy-Who-Lived. Yes, I got you, you little brat_, Snape sneered mentally. "It's him," he confirmed to his comrades and then plunged deeper into the girl's memories.

Snape went back to the last time Hilary had taken a ride on the Skyrail. He saw her entering and leaving on various substations, making a point of memorizing in detail the locations that could be used for Apparation. When done, he retreated from the attendant's mind and promptly Oblivated her.

"Thank you miss, I think I can find a toilet on my own now," said Kingsley and quickly led his group to a public loo. After locking the door with a temporary charm, he turned to his men. "Alright, we are going to the first substation. Snape, have you got the spot?"

"Yes. I'll use the Order marker 10. I'll signal you when it's ready," he said and promptly disapparated.

**

* * *

**

Snape appeared in a secluded corner of a walkway amongst the trees. After quickly Oblivating a nearby muggle, he looked over the railing and saw that wooden bridges were elevated at least 15 feet over the forest ground. Shaking his head at muggles' antics, he ran straight towards the terminal. He arrived just as the cabin was taking off. He looked through the rear window and immediately spotted his prey, standing in the rear end of the cabin.

"Potter," Snape sneered under his breath.

As if he had heard him, the boy turned around and for a moment, their eyes met. Potter's eyes widen in surprise and fear as he stepped back from the window, making Snape smirk evilly. From that muggle girl's experience, Snape knew it would take almost an hour for the cabin to reach the next substation. And there was no way Potter could disembark earlier than that.

_I got you now, you little shit_, he thought victoriously, as he watched the brat's cabin disappear behind the thick canopy.

Snape then nonchalantly found a bathroom and locked the door behind him. Once the room was secured, he started constructing an image of the marker number 10 in his mind, which was something called the 'Bannanaman'. It was a cartoon dressed in tight blue outfit, holding a "banana-gun" in his right and an ice cream in his left hand. For some reason, his right leg was resting on a colourful beach ball on the ground. Snape sneered at the image, mentally cursing Albus and his damn fascination with muggle comic books from the fifties. When he was ready, he pushed the image forward and performed the complicated spell, pointing his wand at the spot at the centre of the room. Blue light flashed, briefly forming an image of 'Bannanaman' in his full glory, before completely disappearing from sight.

Snape then tapped his amulet, sending the appropriate spell, before stepping back to a nice looking corner. Few seconds later, Order members started Apparating all around the spot where he had placed the marker.

"Status?" asked Kingsley.

"Potter was just leaving when I arrived. I can confirm that he is in the contraption that had just left this terminal. From that girl's experience, it would take him almost an hour before the next station, with no stops in between. So, unless the brat decides to break his neck by jumping off the cabin, I see no way he could avoid us at the next station."

"I don't think Harry's that desperate," piped in Tonks. "He knows we have no legal authority over him. He'll probably just show us his permits and demand that we leave him alone."

"On the other hand, he _is_ a Gryffindor," sneered Higgs, earning an approving nod from Snape. "They always have the craziest ideas and then rely on luck to make them work."

"Shut up, Terr," said McLaggen playfully, not in the least annoyed by his friend's comment. "You're just peeved 'cuz Potter, a mere first year, beat you on your last match against Gryffindor."

"That's exactly what I'm saying, Phillip," said Terrence stiffly. "Pure luck."

"That's enough, rookies," grumbled Moody. "The plan is solid. We apparate to the next station. Wait for him. Snatch him. Disappear."

"Then it's agreed." finished the discussions Kingsley. "Snape?"

Snape nodded. "Marker 11," he said before Disapparating.

**

* * *

**

More than half an hour has passed since the Order's strike team had departed from their temporary headquarters, back in Melbourne. The main living room was once again quiet, except for the quiet fizzing of a small silver instrument on the main table. Suddenly, the instrument started spinning wildly, emitting beeping sounds, interrupted by occasional puffs of smoke.

If some powerful wizard were there now, they would sense two distinct magical links connected with the contraption. One was being activated only sporadically and it led to a rainforest in the northern Australia. The other trail was solid and it led right to a similar silver device, on a shelf inside a huge magical castle, somewhere in Scotland.

**

* * *

**

"Damn that bugger, he is good!" Albus Dumbledore commended his opponent, who happened to be himself.

He had just been forced to exchange a rook shaped like Mad-Eye Moody, for the Dark Side's bishop, which looked strangely like Rodolphus Lestrange. He was well aware he had made the crucial mistake five moves ago, when he had foolishly allowed said Bishop to take over an important diagonal line, shooting straight through his Auror-like pawn formation. His only chance now was to take advantage of the Dark Side's reduced left wing and turn the tables around. Actually, Albus already saw a possible three-move combination that could isolate two black pawns, dressed in generic Death Eater uniforms, in the same vertical column. He was briefly tempted to take a peek at his opponent's plans, but he managed to prevail his moment of weakness, before deciding on the first move in his new scheme.

"Minerva, would you please move to G6," he said to one of the Light Side's knights.

"Are you sure about that, Albus? I could easily be taken by Bellatrix on that field," said the tiny animated figure.

"Trust me, Minerva, it's for the greater good." said Albus, making the small McGonagall stride to her new location in a huff.

Done with that, Albus lolled back into his comfy armchair and closed his eyes contently. He then carefully magically isolated all of the Light Side's plans and strategies in a secluded corner of his brain, effectively Oblivating himself. At the same time, he found another memory bubble, with the Dark Side's plans and moves, and gently dissolved it. He suddenly felt a rush of new information into his brain, while the old ones faded away.

"You're back, Master?" asked Lucius Malfoy, still standing at his starting position, by the side of a tiny Lord Voldemort.

"Yes, Lucius. I see that the Light Side has indeed fallen into my trap," said Albus, truly enjoying playing a part of his dark arch-nemesis.

"Yes, my Lord. Your brilliance is nothing less than legendary. Not to mention that the old muggle-loving fool had always been much too trusting for his own good," said the 4-inch tall Malfoy with an evil sneer.

"Indeed," said Dumbledore, managing a sneer with a surprising ease. "Bella!"

"Yes, master?" a Bellatrix Lestrange-shaped rook said reverently, dropping on her knees.

"You may proceed with taking that Dumbledore's bitch from G6," Albus crowed, making the tiny McGonagall splutter in outrage.

"Yes, Master," Bella purred, with a look of insanity on her tiny carved face.

"And Bella... You don't have to be gentle," sneered Dumbledore, managing an evil look. If some of his students saw him now, they would have probably ended up scared for life.

"Really Albus, was that truly necessary?" said the small Minerva, crossing her arms self-indignantly.

"You Mudblood whore, how dare you speak to the great Lord Voldemort, the future ruler of the world!?" boomed Albus angrily, some distant part of his brain praying that privacy charms around his office were still working.

"I'll make her pay for that insult, master!" purred Bellatrix evilly. "Here, kitty-cat."

"Go ahead, my pet! Carry on the seed of darkness!" boomed Dumbledore, as he watched tiny Bella stalk towards the proud-looking McGonagall. "Soon, the light shall falter and all those fools who dared cross my path shall realize that there's no good or ev..."

A loud teapot-like whistle suddenly interrupted Dumbledore's impersonation of his enemy. He instinctively pulled out his wand, but instead of defending himself, he quickly conjured a sheath over the chess table.

"Hey, what's the big idea..." one of the figures protested, but it was quickly silenced when Albus charmed the cover to be soundproof. He then turned to the source of the sound, ready to Oblivate whoever was responsible for interrupting his game. However, he relaxed when he realized it was just one of his magical tracking devices.

Albus quickly stood up and walked over to the shelf with the instruments he had been forced to repair after Harry's little temper tantrum. His eyes widened in surprise when he realized he was hearing the device connected with the spell-tracking charm on Harry's wand.

_Oh goody! So they've truly found Harry_, thought Albus happily. _And it seems that the little urchin is resisting capture, bless him._

Albus briefly wondered how much heat would the boy receive from Fudge for performing underage magic, but then he realized that the Ministry trackers wouldn't be able to detect Harry from ten time zones away. The only reason Albus was able to receive this now was because he had sent a sub-unit of his detection equipment set with his search team to Australia.

In the meantime, the silver instrument had been speeding up and getting ready to receive the data. Suddenly, there was a beep, a puff of smoke and a small billet was conjured between the instrument's four legs. Albus was just able to glimpse the word 'Expelliarmus', below which stood the wand's geographical location and the time of the casting, before three more papers popped up on top of it in quick succession. Albus quickly inspected them all and saw that they were all 'Stupefy's, with the same coordinates as the first one. He was eagerly waiting for more, but nothing came in.

Albus patiently waited a few more minutes, absentmindedly inspecting the notes. He was just about to turn away, when there was another beep, signalling Harry's new spell.

_He still isn't subdued_, thought Albus worriedly. He was just about to inspect this new note, when there was yet another puff and a new note appeared on top of the previous one.

Albus picked up both papers and read the last one, which said 'Stupefy'. He then moved that paper away and took a good look at the previous one. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw _'Corpus Labi Delenitus'_ written on it.

Thanks to his monitoring, Albus was well aware that Harry had learned that spell after a nasty fall from a broom in his third year. It was a spell that would slow down any object's free fall, subduing the force of gravity.

_Where in the Merlin's name is Harry falling from to use that spell_, Albus wondered.

He waited a few more minutes but no new reports came through. After the instrument stopped spinning, Albus retreated to his desk, and lolled back in his favourite reclining chair. He was sorely tempted to send this information to his team using Fawkes, but he decided against it. It would only hinder his men if a magical bird suddenly popped up out of the blue, right in front of countless muggle witnesses. He would just have to wait for them to contact him and hope for the best.

**

* * *

**

The 'Harry Potter retrieval team', as they jokingly dubbed themselves, was currently sitting in a small open café, a part of the Barron Falls Skyrail substation, relaxing in a fresh air, while waiting for Harry's cabin to arrive. After Apparating at the marker Snape had placed in the men's restroom, the group had spent some time walking around, enjoying the view from open terraces and confusedly inspecting touch-screens with information about the rainforest and the nearby Barron River. After getting bored with sightseeing, the group decided to take a seat in the station's open café and spend their time in a more comfortable position. People that were friends immediately started chatting amiably, one thing led to another, and they soon found themselves engaged in a full-fledged joke-telling contest.

"Well, I guess it's my turn now," said Sturgis wearily, smiling weakly at the joke Kingsley had just told the group. The other Order members gave him encouraging looks. It was such a rare thing seeing him smile after his stretch in Azkaban.

"So, this Auror is patrolling in a park, when he hears someone in the bushes.

'- Who's there! Identify yourself!' he yells.

'- Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.' says the voice from the bushes.

'- Alright, get out of there, all five of you.'"

There were a few weak laughs, but they were mostly forced for Sturgis' sake.

"Alright, I get it, it's not that good" said Sturgis downheartedly.

"Well, what did you expect, we're all Aurors here." said Phillip. "What're you smirking at, Terr? You're an Auror too, you know."

"Don't mind him, those damn Slytherins are always smirking." said Tonks, making Higgs scowl at her. "Ah yes, that too. How could I've forgotten scowling?" she added semi-dryly.

"Maybe we just don't like flaunting our emotional depth to you lower-house simpletons." Terrence said in his most dignified tone. His perfect aristocratic posture was ruined when Phillip gave him a friendly pat on the head.

"Yeah sure, whatever. My turn now!" chirped Tonks. "Ok, here's one about our very own famous prey-of-the-day. It goes something like this... This kid enters a tattoo parlour and says to the artist, 'I want a scar put on the front of my head, sort of like the one Harry Potter has.'"

Snape scowled but Tonks paid him no mind. "The artist says, 'Uh, why yes, I can do it... But if you don't mind my asking, why do you want it?'

At that, the kid replies, 'Well, you see, I once met Harry Potter in person and asked him straight out, how did you do it? How did you managed to deflect the Killing Curse, save the Philosopher's stone, kill a basilisk and win the Triwizard tournament, and all that before your fifteenth birthday? And you know what he told me?'"

"'He told me,'" Tonks pointed to her forehead. "'You've got to have something up here.'"

There was much healthier laugh after this one.

"Alright, as a piece offering to our chirpy little Nymph," said Higgs, making Tonks scowl at him, "I accept to share another joke about our Golden Hero from my vast and superior collection of folk wisdom and…"

"Get on with it!" said Tonks indignantly.

"Your wish is my command, oh feisty one," said Higgs with slight bow. Tonks just stuck her tongue at him. "We begin our story with an old and weary Harry Potter telling his life story to his many grandchildren, gathered around a merry camp fire." started Higgs epically.

"' One day, many years ago', starts Harry Potter in wizened old voice, 'my team had gotten captured by the Death Eaters and brought before the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord immediately lines us all up and starts walking down the line, killing people as he goes. Finally, he reaches me, points his wand at my forehead and cries, 'Avada Kedavra!' The spell hits me right at forehead, but nothing happens. The Dark Lord inspects his wand confusedly and then tries again. Nothing. The Dark Lord, already getting agitated, points his wand at me once more and cries with all his might, 'AVADA KEDAVRA!' Yet again nothing.

Merlin, I was feeling so embarrassed, with all those people waiting behind me...'"

All the wizards, save Snape, were heartily laughing. "Yeah, that's a good one," said Kingsley. "Little dark, though."

"It's nothing compared to some others I've heard," replied Higgs. "You should really hear some of the stuff Professor Snape knows." Snape frowned disapprovingly at his ex-pupil.

"Yeah, that's right, Snape didn't tell a joke yet," said Tonks chirpy. "So, how about it, Sev?"

"I absolutely refuse to lower myself..."

"Oh, come on Sevvy, don't be such a spoil-sport!" whined Tonks, giving him puppy-dog eyes.

"Stop staring at me like that, woman! And it's Snape... Professor Snape to you! Unlike some of you, I'm a very busy man. I have neither the time nor the inclination to waste my time on learning these useless... 'jokes', or engaging myself in any other meaningless shenanigans!" he spat, frowning like there was a piece of crap under his nose.

"But young Terrence here clearly stated that you've still managed to pick quite a lot of... 'meaningless shenanigans', between your potion brewing, teaching and... other activities." Kingsley said with a smirk.

"From his Death Eater buddies, no doubt." grumbled Moody.

"_Young Terrence_ should have probably kept his mouth shut and minded his own business," said Snape mock-sweetly, while glaring at Higgs. But then he saw a mischievous smirk on the young man's face and suddenly changed his mind. "But if you truly insist, I guess I could share a little... comic fiction I have heard from a certain... disreputable associates of mine." he said silkily, with an evil look in his eyes.

"Yeah everyone, Snape's telling a joke! Snape! Snape! Snape!" cheered Tonks. Snape sat there with a stony look on his face, patiently waiting for Tonks' chant to die down.

"Now, if the amazing klutz-wonder is quite done..." he sneered at cowed Tonks, "I think I might want to get over and done with this foolishness."

"Go ahead, professor," said Higgs softly, at which Snape nodded curtly and cleared his throat.

"The setting of this... let's say fictional anecdote is quite similar to the one from Mr. Higgs' tale," started Snape in his silkily voice, the one that he used for his lectures. "The Dark Lord has lined-up some captured Mudblood scum and started walking down the line, killing the filthy vermin one by one."

Few Order members gave Snape disapproving looks, but they couldn't stop him now, since they had clearly asked for it.

"Somewhere in the middle of the line, the Dark Lord reaches a cute little girl, who raised her tiny hand and asks in a small voice. 'Mr. You-Know-Who, I have a little wish.'

The Dark Lord looks down on her irritably and says, 'Very well, just hurry up, I'm a busy man, you know.'

The little girl looks down shyly and says with a sniff, 'I just want to live a little while longer.'

Suddenly, there is a spark of something long forgotten in the Dark Lord's cold heart and he takes pity on that small, innocent creature, who just wanted to see her mummy and daddy again and live her innocent little life, happily ever after." Snape's mysterious, soft voice was masterfully capturing everyone's attention. All the listeners were leaning forward eagerly, waiting to see what would happen with that cute little girl.

"'Very well, little one. I shall grant you your wish,' says the Dark Lord softly, almost emotionally. 'You can go to the end of the line.'"

"No!" yelled Tonks. "You can't do that, you slimy, sick bastard!" Only Higgs and strangely Moody were laughing, while other members shared a mixture of disgusted and amused expressions.

"You asked for it." said Snape softly, smiling smugly.

"That _was_ kinda funny, Severus," said Sturgis, "but considering the fact that you're surrounded by Aurors and Light supporters, you could have chosen some other topic."

"Look who's talking." muttered McLaggen.

"It's time," grumbled Moody, ending all discussions.

"Oh come on Moody, we still have almost 15 minutes left 'till the cabin arrives." replied Tonks.

"Nevertheless, we must be well prepared for anything. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" he boomed.

Even though Kingsley was officially in charge, Moody would take reins each time the group's vigilance dropped below some minimal point only he could fathom. Thus far, nobody had the guts to challenge him in the times such as this.

"Alright, you've heard the man. Let's create a perimeter around the station and keep muggles at check. We need to make this clean and fast, people, so move it!" ordered Kingsley, accepting Moody's not-so-subtle suggestion.

**

* * *

**

Fifteen minutes later met all the team members at their posts, waiting for Harry's gondola to arrive. Suddenly, the cabin appeared behind the tree canopy. All wizards tensed in anticipation, getting ready for action. Mad-Eye was the first one to notice something was wrong. "It's empty," he said and left his post, pulling out his wand.

The other agents were quick to follow his example. Soon, the entire team was lined up on the platform by the rail, waiting for the cabin to stop.

"Oh, shit," said Tonks a second before nearby muggles started screaming, calling for doctors. Kingsley quickly flashed his fake badge and started directing the crowd, while Snape strolled into the cabin and inspected the sight.

On the floor of the cabin lay four unconscious people. Snape immediately recognized the Japanese couple, thanks to an abundance of muggle cameras, tour-guides and souvenirs sticking from their various pockets. He also recognized the German with a notebook and the strange haggard man in a raincoat. There was no trace of Boyle Livingston, a.k.a. Harry Potter anywhere in the cabin. _Shit indeed_, Snape thought glumly.

After casting a few muggle repellent charms around the platform, Snape levitated the muggles out of the cabin and enervated them. Three of them looked around confusedly, but the fourth one, the one in a raincoat, immediately yelled, "Bugger! I can't believe that kid stunned me!"

"You're a wizard?" asked Tonks. All the Order members were now looming over the cowed passengers. Only Moody was still stalking around, making sure that Potter wasn't trying to escape using his Invisibility cloak.

"Yes, of course I am. Ian Paul Freely, Wizarding Association of Amateur Naturalists, at your service," he said in a friendly Australian accent, as he stood up and dusted dirt from his cloak. He then started shaking hands enthusiastically with all the wizards surrounding him. When he came to Tonks, he bowed and gently kissed her hand, making her blush. Higgs scowled at that but remained silent. "And who might you be, gentlemen... and lady?"

At this point, Kingsley took over the conversation. "We are minders of one of the passengers in this cabin. I believe you saw him, a taller young man, with black hair and a scar on his forehead."

"Cripes! That's the bloke who stunned me!" yelped Ian. "What's the problem with that kid, anyway? He was all fine and dandy to begin with, and then he just went berserk and started firing curses all around him."

"As you must have experienced firsthand, the boy is having some... difficulties with his mental stability, which is why he needed minders in the first place," replied Kingsley smoothly. "I'm afraid that our charge is at the moment extremely dangerous, both for himself and the others. We would truly appreciate it if you explained to us in detail what had exactly happened back there."

"Yes, of course, no problem," said Ian confusedly. "Well, you see, until that last station, the boy seemed perfectly normal, seeing the sights, enjoying the ride... You know, the usual. But as soon as we left the previous platform, he started acting as if experiencing some sort of panic attack - pacing around nervously, sweating, muttering under his breath. Then, about 20 minutes into the ride, he pulls out his wand and starts apologizing for what he's about to do. I immediately pull out my own wand, but he's quicker and hits me with Expelliarmus. Then he stuns all the muggles in the cabin and starts asking me about the rainforest - you know, where's the nearest river, which are surrounding villages, where is the wildest part of the forest and so on. So, after I tell him all that, the little bugger casts some long spell on himself, and then says he's sorry and stuns me. The next thing I remember is you guys waking me up."

Kingsley turned to Snape, who was at the moment extracting memories from the German muggle.

In the muggle's memory, Snape saw agitated Potter pacing around the cabin. Suddenly, he said something and pulled out his wand. That strange Aussie wizard started pulling out his own wand with extreme flourish, as if he was on a duelling competition. Of course, Potter immediately disarmed him. Then, he stunned the Japanese couple and then finally the German whose mind he was reading. After that, everything went blank.

Snape turned back to Kingsley and nodded slightly, indicating that the wizard was telling the truth.

"Mr. Freely, would you mind terribly if we checked your wand?" asked Kingsley the other wizard, while Sturgis quietly cast Glamour-detection charm at his back, before shaking his head slightly.

"Well, OK..." said Ian and started rummaging through his pockets. "Shit! That little bastard stole my wand!" he yelled indignantly. "Just so you know, I hold you fully responsible for this and expect full repayment for my lost wand! That kid is your responsibility after all!" he said angrily to Kingsley. Wizards were usually very attached to their wands.

"Of course Mr. Freely, we will gladly repay you for your lost wand, as well as little extra for all the troubles our client had put you trough. Of course, in return we expect of you not to involve the official authorities in this case. Our charge is just a confused, sick, little boy. I'm sure he didn't even know what he was doing when he took your wand," said Kingsley smoothly.

Ian sighed. "Very well, I'll keep my mouth shut, and I could surely use some cash," he said as he took a bag of Galleons from Sturgis. "Just make sure you give that little whelp a good spanking once you find him."

"Mr. Freely, you can certainly count on that," said Snape sincerely, with an eager glint in his eyes.

"Alright, good luck then, gentlemen, ma'm." Ian shook the wizards' hands and gave an extra deep bow to Tonks, with a small wink on side. He then turned and left, never noticing Higgs scowling at his back.

At that moment, Australian Aurors started apparating on the station, trying to contain the situation.

"I'll take care of this," said Kingsley to his team. "You guys go to the loo and wait for me there. You can contact Albus and inform him that it's safe to send in Fawkes."

They all nodded and left the scene, letting Kingsley deal with the authorities. Hopefully, Dumbledore's international influence would be enough to cover up the incident. They needed Harry safely back in England, not under charges in some Australian prison.

**

* * *

**

Five minutes later, Kingsley entered the toilet and closed the door behind him.

"It's all taken care of. There was a sudden burst of natural magic. Several muggles fainted from the shock. There never was a man named Boyle Livingston taking the Skyrail," reported Kingsley. "I also had Aurors check Apparation and Portkey signatures. There were no recorded jumps anywhere in the rainforest, which means that Harry is still out there somewhere."

Other wizards nodded in relief. These were good news.

"We received a message from Albus." said Mad-Eye. "This is the list of spells detected from Potter's wand, along with their times and places."

Kingsley took the paper and inspected it. "Disarmer and three stunners. Then, after a pause, anti-gravity spell and another stunner." he murmured under his breath. "That fits the witnesses' description perfectly. The boy stunned the other passengers and jumped off the gondola into the rainforest."

"I believe now would be the perfectly reasonable time to say - I told you so!" Higgs crowed smugly at the flustered Tonks.

"Shut up, you snake! How was I supposed to know he even knew that spell and then had the guts to use it? I mean, he couldn't possibly know that the Ministry wouldn't detect him here!" retorted Tonks angrily.

"That's enough, rookies!" snapped Mad-Eye. "Potter now has an untraceable wand, a survival pack, a book on covering up his tracks and a half hour head start. We need to pull our shit together, and create a new strategy, or we'll completely lose him in the wilderness."

"Or, hopefully to some rabid beast," muttered Snape under his breath.

"Moody's right," sighed Kingsley. "We'll need muggle guides, trackers and search dogs, with some more hired arms to cover up the wider area... maybe even an air support."

"We'll also need food and water rations, along with some camping equipment," said Sturgis wearily.

"Maybe even some training on survival in the wilderness. It's not like you non-hunting folks know much about it," exclaimed McLaggen reluctantly.

"Don't forget something for mosquito bites," piped in Tonks glumly.

"Albus will be mightily pissed when I send him the bill for all the extra expenses," sighed Kingsley, before disapparating back to their temporary headquarters. The other Order members soon followed behind him, all of them wearing depressed and glum faces. They knew they were in for one hell of a manhunt.

"Merlin, how I hate that brat," sighed Snape, before he too disappeared away with a loud crack.

**

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An hour later, a taxi was slowly driving down the street in one of the Cairns' cheapest slums, far away from the shiny tourist attractions. The car briefly stopped by an abandoned parking lot, letting one Ian Paul Freely disembark from the vehicle. The strange man quickly looked around, making sure his arrival went unnoticed, before stalking deeper into the closed-off parking lot, filled with dumpsters and trash. Having once again checked that he wasn't being followed, he pulled out a strangely familiar wand and cast a set of muggle-repellent charms around the area. Satisfied that his privacy was ensured, he closed his eyes and visibly concentrated. Several seconds later, in place of Ian Paul Freely stood the well-known figure of one Harry James Potter.

After another check of his surroundings, Harry retrieved a large bone from his raincoat's inner pocket and put it on the ground. He pointed his new wand at the bone and cast the appropriate reversal spell. The bone slowly transformed into a man that looked like an exact duplicate of Ian Paul Freely, except for his clothes, which were muggle, dirty and worn-out.

Harry quickly examined his wand, making sure that glamour was still in place, before casting "Enervate" on the unconscious men.

"Eh... Wha... What the hell?" mumbled the men, before he saw Harry looming over him. "Oh, it's you. Hey! What's the big idea of knocking me out and-"

"Here's the rest of your payment, Carl." Harry stopped the man's complaint by handing him over a 50-dollar bill.

"Why, thanks!" said Carl eagerly as he took the bill in his dirty hands and carefully stored it the pocket of his haggard clothes. "So, how went the prank? That light show was truly somethin', but you should 've warned me you were gonna hit me with that... thingy."

"Yes, Carl, the prank worked great," said Harry, while lifting his wand and pointing it at Carl's forehead. "But I'm afraid I can't let you go away with your memories of the prank intact," he said apologetically.

"It… it wasn't a light show, was it?" spluttered Carl, taking a step back. "Wait a second, I know who you are! God, it all makes sense now!" he yelled, while pointing his finger at Harry accusingly. "You're one of those... men in black! You're helping the aliens take over the world!"

Harry smirked and said, "That's right Carl, you've got me all figured out. _Oblivate!_"

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»»»  
**Author notes  
**«««****

****

**EDIT: This chapter had been edited after the posting of chapter 8. Grammar was heavily patched up. A few awkward parts were completely rewritten. However, the plot stayed the same, so there's really no need to read the chapter again (if you don't feel like it). **

**o - Beta **

This story now has an official beta reader. I would like to thank **Jolly Rancher** for going through this chapter and beating out grammar errors, as well as to everyone who contacted me and offered to beta my chapters. I truly appreciate it.

**o - Sources and additional disclaimers **

Information about Cairns city and Skyrail, I got from:

information about Australia and it's police forces (AFP), I got from:

www.australia.gov.au

Some tips about Australian speech (which I haven't used very much), I got from:

encyclopedia/ a/ au/ australianwords.htm (remove spaces)

Jokes that the Order members are telling I got from a few web pages, some documents I have on my HD and personal experience.

You may also spot titbits from the following shows and movies:

The Simpsons (TV)  
South Park (TV)  
Bannanaman (TV)  
Space Balls (1987, IMDb tt0094012)  
Men in Black (1997, IMDb tt0119654)

The encyclopaedia I used for reference is Britannica 2005.

I don't own any intellectual property mentioned above.


	6. Serpents' place in the world

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**Potter's Resistance 1: Breaking Ties **

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**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic, and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to Harry Potter.

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»»»  
**Chapter 6: Serpents' place in the world  
**«««

Harry stood leaned against the wall of his Potions lab, staring blankly at the trio of cauldrons with completed potions needed for the 'Cerebrum trafero' ritual. It was strongly advised to test the purity of the potions, less the ritual backfire on its performer, but Harry could tell outright that the brews would pass - not with flying colours by a long shot, but they'd certainly end up within the minimal quality limits. Harry actually didn't know whether to be happy or sad by this development. Sure, his academic side was overjoyed with his success, but his stomach still clenched at the thought of what he knew would be the next step in the process.

For the hundredth time that morning, Harry glanced at his wristwatch. He had more than half an hour to get ready for his meeting with Macmillan, which was scheduled for 11:30. Harry sighed and started casting preservation and testing charms on the potions. There was no use in procrastinating any longer - he knew this day would come. Hell, it might even turn out to be fun taking some action back to the Death Eaters.

Having finished with the preservative spell-work, Harry strolled out of the lab and went to get ready for the meeting. It was time for some information gathering.

**

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"Lucas," Joseph Macmillan nodded respectfully from the other side of a table, in one of the private booth at Matt's Place. "You look good. Your new book serves you well?"

"Yes, it's great," replied Harry and then licked his lips thoughtfully. "Just out of curiosity, did you ever figure out the true identity behind some of Anarchia nicknames?"

Joseph shrugged. "I've had a theory or two."

"So, what did you do about it? I mean, if it's a prominent member of society and such?"

"What did I do?" Josh chuckled. "The same thing you'll do. Nothing. Remember Lucas, what's learned from Anarchia, stays within its members. So, unless you can confirm that knowledge from an outside source, you'd better keep any theories you may have to yourself."

Harry sighed. "I figured as much."

"Besides, it's not like there aren't ways to mess with the society nicknames. It'll cost you an article or two, but I'm certain you can arrange with Anarchia to change your posting name or even gang up with a few other members and post under the same name. If I were you, I'd triple-check that theory of yours, before confronting anyone about anything you might think you know. You don't wanna shoot and miss on this one kid, trust me."

"You're right. I'd rather not lose my membership over some foolish desire to appease my curiosity," Harry agreed, deciding to drop the subject. Even though Joseph's theory about several people posting under 'one flag' was interesting, Harry remained convinced he had truly ferreted out Dumbledore's underground identity, largely thanks to his unique point of view.

"Right you are," nodded Josh. "After all, you did pay good money for the damn book. Speaking of which, how's the third instalment of the initiation fee coming along?"

Harry shifted in his seat. "Fine. No problem there. The plan's coming along nicely, it'll sure make a bang," he said brightly, while nodding enthusiastically.

"You forgot, didn't you?" asked Josh, seeing right through his playful act.

"Yep, slipped my mind completely," Harry chuckled, still nodding brightly.

"You really shouldn't joke about it, Lucas. You've had a lot of luck getting accepted to Anarchia. You shouldn't throw that away just because you 'forgot' about your obligations," admonished Joseph sternly.

"I know, I know," sighed Harry seriously. "I was just so caught up with some other schemes, that playing some silly prank on Fudge completely slipped my mind."

"And I suppose this information you've requested has something to do with these grand 'schemes' of yours?" asked Josh, probing the ground gently.

"Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I just like prying into other people's business, like a certain someone I know," said Harry evasively, looking pointedly at his semi-friend.

"Alright, alright, I get the hint," said Joseph, raising his hands defensively. "I can't help but feel curious, Lucas, but as long it's just my own personal curiosity, your secrets are safe. Of course, if someone else were to hire me to dig a little deeper, then..." Joseph shrugged apologetically.

"You are free to try, my friend," Harry smiled, indicating that he understood that everyone was a fair game in Josh's line of business. "So, about those files..."

"Right. Well, the easy one first. Auror Gudmund Pederson, Hogwarts generation 1992, Hufflepuff. Both parents deceased, no regular contacts with any other closer relations. Barely scraped through the Auror training... But I'm sure you've already found his grades in Anarchia. Hired directly to Fudge's personal bodyguards, which is... highly irregular."

Harry tried to say something, but Joseph interrupted him. "Yes, of course I checked it out. It seems that his father, a director of the Goblin Liaison Office at the time, did some favour for Fudge when he was only a young upstart in the Department of Magical Catastrophes. Fudge, in his infinite wisdom, declared formally that he owed the Pederson family a favour and pledged that he will repay it someday. A few years later, the old Pederson unexpectedly died. Fudge moved on, eventually becoming the Minister of Magic. Young Gudmund had probably found mentions of that pledge in his deceased father's documents, and decided to call upon the favour. Of course, since the promise hadn't been blood bonded or written down in a contract, Fudge could have just as easily refused. However, it seems that Pederson played his cards right and managed to swindle the idiot into letting him into his elite unit. Fudge's probably regretting it now, since the klutz is nowhere near the level needed for that unit. They'll probably flunk him out at his next review."

Harry sat there in complete silence, mulling over the information he had just heard. It all seemed to fit perfectly with his plan. "You have that in a written form?"

"Yes, here it is. Just... don't let it circulate around," said Josh and handed him a rather thin file.

"Right, no worries. So, about that other thing..."

"Now Joseph, unlike this Pederson fellow, which was a rather routine job, this other gig was anything but. You do understand that Augustus Rookwood is the Dark Lord's top agent, not to mention he's on every Ministry's 'most wanted' list. Furthermore, he is currently working on a secret research project under the direct command of the Dark Lord himself. I had to gather an entire bundle of snoops and informants to help me look into it. Let me tell you, it took us more than two weeks just to pinpoint Rookwood's hiding place, and I won't even mention the resources we've spent on digging in deeper..."

"Ok, ok, stop," said Harry raising his hand. "I told you to spare no expenses and I meant it. I'll gladly pay up all the bills, as long as the info you've gained is good."

"Very well. 500 galleons. And trust me, that's just to cover our basic..." started Joseph uncomfortably, but was once again interrupted by Harry, who wordlessly counted five banknotes and handed them over to his informant.

"OK, now spill it," he said after Josh had packed the money.

"Augustus Rookwood, Ravenclaw alumni, graduated from Hogwarts in 1962, Head Boy, the best student of generation, yada, yada, yada. You probably know all that. Now, for the fun part. After escaping capture in the Department Of Mysteries, back in June, he was assigned a new task. It's all very hush-hush, but from what little the Inner Circle knows, it's some sort of a research project under direct supervision of the Dark Lord himself. Now, as I've told you, it took my guys a while, but in the end, they've managed to pinpoint Rookwood's exact location."

At Joseph's pause, Harry raised an eyebrow and then snorted. "Who's a showman now?"

"Now Lucas, if someone asks you where you got this information..."

"...I'll tell them I researched the Death Eaters' activities myself, until I figured it out."

Joseph sighed, leaned forward and whispered. "No. 13 Blackmore road, Knockturn Alley."

"What? That's not five minutes away from here!" Harry hissed back.

Josh snorted and nodded. "My own reaction was about the same. My men had been tracking Death Eater movements and rumours all over the Britain, only to end up where they'd first started, in our own back yard. It seems that life truly has a sense of irony."

"Yeah, tell me about it," mumbled Harry. "So, what do you know of this place?"

"It's a rundown, two story house, nothing too eye-catchy but sturdy nonetheless. Rookwood left the house only four times while we've been watching it. Each time he was only gone for about an hour or so, presumably submitting reports on his progress to the Dark Lord. Before you ask, we couldn't follow him since he was using public apparation zones. There're just too many different traces to follow there, not to mention it's kinda hard to cast illegal tracers with several Aurors guarding the zone. Anyway, no one else had visited the house, suggesting that Rookwood is truly working directly under the Dark Lord's orders."

"What about security?" interjected Harry.

"Yes, I was just getting to that. The good news first. There are no heavy concealment or displacement wards around the premises. Understandable, if you think about it; the amount of ambient magic in the Alleys would tear something like Fidelius to shreds. As for the bad news... well, pretty much everything else is on it - shields, barriers, wall fortifications, automated defences, sensors; Not to mention some of the best magical filters my guys had ever seen. I'm telling you, that place is a blasted fortress - no living thing goes in and no magic leaks out. Rookwood must be doing some serious spell-work in there, if he needs such strong barriers to keep it hidden from the Ministry."

Harry set pensively, nodding in understanding. "Have you tried to infiltrate the house?"

"Yeah, we've tried alright. The key word being 'tried'. That damn place is locked up so tightly that we haven't even managed to take a peek inside, not to mention actually enter the house. Hell, we've even tried with possessing insects and sneaking them in with Rookwood, but those bloody blocking wards would immediately cut off the mind-links with our thralls. I'm telling you straight out, there's absolutely no way to get in there unnoticed. The only way I can think off would be amassing an army and outright blowing through the wards... That is, if you don't mind the Dark Lord dropping in to investigate."

Harry sat there, mulling through this information. He was well aware that he had no chance of slipping past the wards, if Joseph and his men couldn't do it after weeks of trying. The only way to catch Rookwood would be during one of his forays outside the house, but that could easily turn into a boring week staking out. Not to mention he would rather take Rookwood on the home ground, instead of chasing him down some alley. Harry had no illusion that he could easily defeat a senior Unspeakable in a fair duel, at least with his current magical skills. What he needed to do was trap the man or take him by surprise. And he could hardly do it the middle of Knockturn Alley, with a window of opportunity of only a couple of minutes.

Harry sighed and rubbed his temples. He was certain that he was missing something. There had to be a better way to do this... Like somehow luring Rookwood out of the house and then jumping him. But how to do that? He could almost imagine himself knocking on the door and yelling "Pizza delivery!" No, he doubted Rookwood would even hear him though all those barriers... Suddenly, he had an epiphany.

"Josh, what are the intervals between Rookwood's appearances?"

"Well, we've found the house after we followed Rookwood during one of his forays. The next time we saw him was 7 days later, then 5 days later and finally 8 days after that. That was two days ago. So, there's no pattern, if that's what you're looking for."

Harry nodded, pleased with this. "Tell me, Josh, was there something else interesting your men saw there?"

Joseph looked rather confused by this. "Well, I don't know... What exactly are you expecting to hear?"

"Snakes. Has someone reported seeing snakes around the house?" Harry asked hopefully.

Josh looked startled. "Now that I think about it, one of the snoops complained how he almost got bitten by a small snake. He was just about to curse it, when it slithered away and slipped through some sort of porthole into the house. He's been joking ever since then that Rookwood is spending so much time around the Dark Lord, that he even started adopting His habits..." Joseph saw Harry's smug expression and narrowed his eyes. "Lucas, what do you know?"

"Think about it, Josh," said Harry knowingly. "You said it yourself that the wards around the perimeter are blocking any magic from entering or leaving the place. Considering the strength of the wards and the facts that conjured animals couldn't be controlled inside the house, it's safe to assume that no magical link to the outside could operate through the wards."

Joseph nodded, still eyeing him confusedly.

Harry raised an eyebrow and leaned in significantly. "Even one very specific link, which Rookwood and his buddies use to seek out their master."

"The Dark Mark!" Joseph gasped in realization.

"Exactly. Seeing as how Rookwood is leaving the house at irregular intervals, the Dark Lord must be in contact with him somehow, telling him times and places of their next meetings. Since the Dark Mark doesn't work inside the wards, the Dark Lord had to find some other way of keeping in touch with Rookwood, while still leaving no doubt of his identity."

"Thus, the snakes. Only a Parselmouth could command the snakes into the house and only the Dark Lord knows where the house is. The perfect communication system," finished Joseph.

_Not so perfect, after all_, Harry smirked mentally. Now that he figured out a weakness in Rookwood's defences, his capture seemed much more real and doable than moments ago. And even though there was still a lot to be done and even more that could go wrong, Harry felt as if a giant weight had been lifted from his shoulders. This morning, he had a vague notion of what needed to be done and not a lot more. Now, he at least had an actual plan to follow.

"Too bad Potter's gone missing. You could have used him to contact Rookwood, him being Parselmouth and all... if that's what you're planning to do, of course," said Joseph, rousing Harry from his scheming.

"Oh, I'll figure something else out. I might try to capture Dark Lord's messenger snake and swap the message without it noticing." Joseph was about to say that the Dark Lord had surely protected his snakes against something like that, but Harry spoke right on.

"Anyway, speaking of the Boy-Who-Lived, I have an update on Potter-hunting, if you're interested," he said, trying to move the conversation away from his plans about Rookwood.

"Ah, the Australian rainforests. Not exactly my area of expertise, but my colleague of sorts Feroll Bold gave me a rundown of what had happened out there."

"Oh? Friendly competition?" asked Harry with a raised eyebrow.

"Not exactly. Bold is more into the... eh, practical side of the tracking business. But he has a nice information network outside the islands. We often work together... cultural exchange and all that rot," clarified Joseph.

"I'm sure. Anyway, I see that you already know the basics, but I can give you a complete rundown of the Order's unsuccessful retrieval operation. It's an interesting story, if nothing else."

"Very well. I'm all ears," said Joseph and lolled back in his chair.

And even as Harry started retelling his latest adventure - from an outsider's point of view, of course - deep down, he was already solidifying his plans for the rest of the day. He was certain that, by nightfall, he would have his final ingredient safely tucked away in his warehouse.

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Half an hour later found Harry inside Magical Menagerie, the 'official' pet-shop of the Diagon Alley. Of course, it was far from the only one; Many scoundrels traded with rare and dangerous animals, but they all dealt directly with customers, not having enough traffic to open up their own dedicated stores. Magical Menagerie was practically the only true shop of this kind in the whole England.

Harry was surprised by the new look of the shop's interior. Gone were the fuzzy white rabbits, furry cats or children's favourite puffskeins. In their place were now cages with guard dogs, poisonous scorpions, bugs with huge pincers, nasty looking vultures and other dangerous animals that could be used for personal protection in this time of instability. A special place in the store was reserved for snakes, which were placed in a huge glass casing, along the entire far wall of the room.

Harry approached the glass wall and saw that various eco-systems were being magically simulated in different parts of the huge showcase. Many different types of snakes took their residence inside artificial forests, deserts and grasslands, freely moving through the huge area, but generally resting within their chosen climates. The place looked truly luxurious and comfortable, which Harry found rather strange. He clearly remembered his visit to this shop prior to his third year. Back then, all the snakes where crammed inside small glass casings, hidden from view in a far corner of the shop.

_I guess snakes are back in fashion, with the Dark Lord's return and all_, Harry thought as he observed the dozing reptiles.

He was interrupted by the arrival of a young male worker. "Feeding time," he explained to Harry, as he opened up the lid and started throwing all sorts of small animals into the tank.

"This case looks awfully... opulent," commented Harry.

The youth snorted. "Tell me about it. With the way Mrs. Sheridan has me treating them, sometimes I wish _I_ was a snake."

"But how does it pay off, investing all this effort just to keep the snakes happy?"

"You're kidding, right? We're selling reptiles so fast, we can hardly keep up with demands."

Harry had some idea what the man was talking about, but he still raised a questioning eyebrow. _You never know when you might hear something you didn't know before. _

Seeing Harry's questioning look, the young man elaborated. "There's a word on the street that You-Know-Who might spare your life if he sees you having a snake for a pet _and_ treating it nicely. People are practically competing who would buy the biggest, meanest snake and set it up inside the greatest, most opulent environment. It's the latest trend, mate." He leaned in closer and whispered. "It's rather silly if you ask me. I mean, with You-Know-Who being Parselmouth and all, your pet will more likely end up strangling you than saving your life... But hey, the business is booming, and a pet snake is at least a little bit better than all those fake protection amulets that are overflowing the streets. Who am I to complain?"

At this point, the snakes sensed a prey in the vicinity and started rousing up, getting ready for a hunt. Thus, Harry was once again reminded why he had decided against buying a snake for company and protection after learning he was a Parselmouth in his second year.

»Food.«

»Mouse.«

»Hungry.«

»Mine.«

»Tasty.«

_Yep, eloquent as ever_, Harry mused. Being a Parselmouth was good for having snakes carry out simple orders in exchange for food, but anyone expecting mind-boggling philosophical debates would be sorely disappointed. Snakes simply didn't have the necessity to evolve their brains enough for chatting about weather or discussing each other's feelings. That was why Harry was extremely surprised when he heard hiss from the other end of the cage.

»Hey, big guy!«

Harry whipped his head around and saw that the noise was coming from a small adder, hidden beneath the roots of an artificial tree. He was less than two feet long, black with silver patterns on his back; In fact, he was rather unremarkable, save for a nasty scar going straight through his missing left eye. Strangely, he was holding a still living green frog in his mouth. Harry was just about to answer, when another voice beat him to it.

»Mine redhop!« hissed an ominous looking cobra, staring down at the adder. Harry was confused for a moment, but then he saw an exotic-looking shinny red frog, inching away from the cobra, who had been eyeing it a moment before. With a quick glance around the habitat, Harry noticed that most of the poisonous snakes were praying upon this type of frogs specifically, momentarily ignoring all the other species. _They must be some sort of a special treat for the snakes_, Harry mused, as he observed the conversation.

The small adder didn't seem afraid at all. Actually, he started dancing seductively in front of the cobra, dangling the struggling green frog just inches away from the other snake's head.

»Come on, dumbass, you know you want it,« he hissed softly.

At sight of a food so near, the cobra's instinct kicked in, making it forget all about its previous, much tastier prey. It started dancing in the adder's rhythm, hungrily eyeing the frog in his mouth.

»Give me greenhop!« it hissed to the smaller snake.

»Ah, you want the greenhop, don't you? It's so slick and tasty, mmm... Well, it's all yours, big guy, just come and get it,« the adder hissed seductively, while slowly inching away from the cobra.

»Give me! I'm stronger! It's mine!« the cobra hissed fiercely, poising for an attack on the smaller snake.

»Yes, you are so strong and big and fast,« the adder hissed soothingly, still dangling the frog in his mouth. »Don't have much of an attention span, though,« he snickered under his breath.

_Snickered?_ Harry mused, enthralled by the performance.

»Give me! Give! Give greenhop or I attack! Give now!« the cobra hissed, totally paralyzed by its raging instincts.

»You want it, dumbfuck? You really want it? Then, have it!« hissed the adder and threw the frog against the nearby tree. The cobra sprung after its prey, totally forgetting about the other snake or that fancy red frog, which was still standing by the glass wall, looking around confusedly.

»Sucker,« snickered the adder, as he slithered away to hunt down the real treat.

"I see you've found Pirate Dick," said a voice from behind Harry's back. He turned around and saw the same attendant that was feeding the snakes earlier. "Completely ordinary domestic adder, found in abundance all over the English countryside, with a missing left eye to boot. Nothing remarkable in any way, you'd say. So, why do you think it's here?"

Harry already had a pretty good idea, but he asked anyway. "Why?"

"Well, old Dick here is sort of a shop legend, or... a mascot, if you will. No. Not a mascot, since we aren't exactly showing him around, or anything... Err..." the young man stuttered, thinking how exactly to phrase the explanation of the adder's presence in the shop.

»I prefer the term _'splendidly delicious part of décor'_, but it's your call really,« threw in Dick, while encircling the red frog and waiting for it to die from his poisonous bite. Harry had to fight hard to remain impassive.

"Let's just say that he's Mrs. Sheridan's unofficial pet of sorts... And he really doesn't eat that much, so it's not a big bother keeping him around."

»Gee thanks, you make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside,« said the adder sarcastically, while eying the still struggling frog, pondering from which side to swallow it.

"Anyway, this old guy's been here since long before my time. Almost fifteen years, I've been told-"

»Merlin, don't remind me,« sighed Dick.

"-and during that time, he'd tried to escape Lord knows how many times, at least twenty since I started working here. He was rather unsuccessful, as you can see-"

»Just had to rub it in.«

"-but still, his plans were truly remarkable, for a snake of course. Although, he did try playing dead at least dozen times already. These days, we just zap him awake and move on."

»Hey, it's a damn good plan! It's not my fault that old bat Sheridan isn't as gullible as she used to be,« yelled Dick indignantly, at the moment more interested in conversation then food.

"And of course, there are his other antics, like the one you've just witnessed. I actually don't remember the last time we had to feed Dick separately. He usually just tricks the other snakes into giving him their own food. That's why we've started calling him 'pirate' in the first place. Well, that and the missing eye, of course."

»They've even tried making me wear an eye patch, would you believe that? Too bad that bloke had an antidote ready on hand,« hissed Dick more to himself. It seemed like he was simply daydreaming on having an intelligent conversation, not really expecting any answers. Harry found the little snake more and more interesting by the minute.

"If he's so smart, then how come he's still here? Someone should have bought him off years ago," asked Harry.

"Well, first off, Dick is actually rarely seen at all, except on a feeding day, like today, or during one of his insane escape schemes."

»I hate attention. Fans can be quite bothersome.«

"Then, there's his whole appearance. Let's face it, when people come here looking to buy a snake, then don't actually seek out an old, scared specimen of a species that can probably be found in their own backyard."

»With the way I'm being treated here, I sometimes wonder why I even bother sticking around... Oh, right, must be the whole 'imprisonment in a cage' thing. Wow, who would have thought?« grumbled Dick sarcastically to himself.

"And of course, just to make sure, Mrs. Sheridan had overpriced him to a level that no one would even bother giving him a second look. So, I'm quite certain that old Dick would stay here for a long, long time."

With each word, the little snake seemed more and more depressed. »I wish I was dead...« he deadpanned. »Hey! If they thought I was dead, then... Oh, never mind.«

Harry's lips twitched, but he managed to stifle a laughter. "Well, as luck would have it, I'm very interested in purchasing this... Pirate Dick of yours." Three eyes snapped at Harry, one pair confused and the third one hopeful but apprehensive.

"You are? Well, I'm not sure he's for sale at all. I mean... he is the store's mascot... sort of..." blurted the attendant.

"Be that as it may, you said it yourself that the snake is overpriced, indicating that it is indeed available for sale," was Harry's smooth reply.

"Err, I'm afraid I'll have to bring this to Mrs. Sheridan. Would you please excuse me for a moment?" said the young man and then hurried away to the other end of the store. He was back a minute later, dragging along a short, older witch with thick glasses. She seemed like a sweet old lady, what with that good-natured smile on her kind, grandmotherly face and overall kind appearance.

_Maybe even too kind for the biggest pet-merchant in England_, mused Harry, subconsciously lifting his guard. After years of dealing with the Headmaster, Harry knew that type of mask well. There could easily be a shark hidden underneath her innocent demeanour.

"My name is Selma Sheridan and I am the owner of this store, dear. I've been told you're looking to purchase our dear old Pirate Dick, this shop's beloved mascot," said the old lady sweetly.

Harry smiled back even sweeter. He knew that she was pumping up the price and he would have none of it. "Mascot?" he asked in mock confusion. "I wasn't aware that Dick here is your mascot. I was actually under impression he has been spending most of his days forgotten in the back of his tank, fighting for survival on his own."

»Take that, you old bat!« hissed said snake from behind Harry's back. »Cursed gargoyle is spending more time looking after those experimental monsters she keeps in her basement, than us, proper house pets,« he seethed, making Harry's eyes light up with understanding.

_So, I WAS right! It seems there's a lot more to the sweet old grandma Selma than meets the eye_, he mused thoughtfully.

In the meantime, Sheridan threw an annoyed glare at her young worker, who had obviously revealed too much for her liking, but then she quickly reverted to her sweet old self. "Oh, don't you worry about him, young man. Old Dick here is one smart and crafty fellow, a true Slytherin if there ever was one." She tried to chuckle good-naturedly, but to Harry, it sounded like an old hag's evil laughter at seeing babies boiled in hot oil. "Actually, him being so smart and self-sufficient is a big part of his whole charm and appeal." She then sighed theatrically and shook her head sadly. "Without him around, this store simply wouldn't be the same."

"I see," said Harry while planning how to proceed with the next part. "Well, if this snake is truly so precious to you ma'am, then I wouldn't dream of robbing you of its presence." Harry noticed slightly panicked expression on the woman's face with silent satisfaction. "Of course, my friend from the Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures would still need his birthday present. Hmm... Maybe a specimen from that special stock you keep in your basement would do the trick," Harry mused aloud, while rubbing his chin thoughtfully. The woman's face exploded with panic for a moment, before reverting to a blank mask. Only her narrowed eyes revealed her anger.

"100 galleons," she said sharply, her mask completely off.

"For an ordinary, domestic adder? You should be happy with 10," replied Harry coldly.

"You saw what he can do, young man. 80!" she snapped with a nasty glare directed at Harry.

"That scar and the missing eye don't make him look any prettier. 25."

"65, you're not buying him for his looks."

"65 galleons for the last few months of the old fellow's life? It's hardly worth 35!"

"His very unique and one-of-a-kind life, you mean? 55, and no lower!"

"Oh, but you have a lot more unique entities in your possession, don't you, my dear Mrs. Sheridan?" hissed Harry snidely.

At this point, both bidders were leaning forward, noses almost touching, trying to outglare each other. Sheridan was looking particularly nasty after that last comment, her body shaking in anger, looking like it might explode any second. "45 galleons, and that's my final offer!" screeched the old lady in rage, spraying saliva all over Harry's face.

"Taken!," snarled Harry back, retaliating with the same measure. Both bidders kept their places in the ensued silence, still trying to murder each other with imaginary death rays from their eyes.

»Oh, it's so nice to see my fate being discussed in such a caring and spiritualized manner. Would you like me to wrap myself up? I hope that me still breathing wouldn't be too much of a bother for you,« hissed sarcastically Dick, who had been completely silent during the bidding process. He seemed royally pissed now, and maybe even a bit afraid. For all his complaints and escape attempts, Magical Menagerie has still been his home for the past 15 years or so. Unlike his safe and secure cage, his new owner was very much an unknown quantity.

On the other side of the glass wall, his hissing had broken the silence between Sheridan and Harry.

"Well, we're all settled then!" chirped the old lady, somehow managing to regain her previous façade. "Would you prefer a metallic cage or a glass case, dear?"

"Glass case, ma'am," replied Harry equally sweetly.

"You, boy! Stop gawking and see that it's all taken care of! And charge the customer," snapped the storeowner at the young attendant, who was still standing beside them, glaring stupidly.

"Yes Mrs. Sheridan! Right away, ma'am," he stumbled and hurried off to bring a small glass case for the snake.

"Well, if that's all, I should probably leave you in the capable hands of our young attendants. You know how it is dear, there is always more work to be done," she tried to chuckle kindly, but her flashing eyes somehow ruined the effect.

"Of course, ma'am. Thank you for your assistance and have a nice day," said Harry politely.

"You too dear, you too," smiled the sweet old lady, before turning around and stalking to the opposite corner of the shop in a huff. As soon as her back was turned, Harry's kind smile faltered, his face reverting to a blank expression. "Ugly bitch," he mumbled at Sheridan's retreating back, at the same time as she murmured "Obnoxious brat,"

With one last parting sneer, Harry turned around to take another look at his new snake. He couldn't help but conclude that this shopping trip has turned out to be much more interesting than he expected.

**

* * *

**

Twenty minutes later Harry was sitting on a couch in his tent, looking at a glass case, placed on top of a coffee table in front of him. His green eyes were locked with the single blue eye of his new snake, both intelligent entities trying to figure each other out. Slowly, a devious smirk stretched across Harry's lips.

He stood up and retrieved a large tome on intermediate-level potions from a nearby bookcase. He threw himself back on the couch and started turning pages, pretending not to notice his new snake's curious stare. "Aha," he said after few seconds of searching. "Cortex venomous solution," he murmured, inventing a name on the fly.

"Let's see now..." he murmured, "Armadillo bile, got it... knotgrass, already have it... wormwood petals, yes... the main ingredient - a magical serpent's body parts..." Harry briefly glanced at Dick, who leaned backwards in surprise, his single eye widening slightly, his mouth hanging open. Harry nodded to himself and chirped "Yup!" before returning to his 'instructions'.

"Before starting with ingredient processing, it's recommended to boil the snake in hot water for several minutes, until its skin softens, for the sake of easier separation later on," muttered Harry. From the corner of his eyes, he watched Dick shifting nervously in his tank, looking all around him for a way out.

"Start the process by removing the snake's fangs. Regular muggle pincers have proven to be the most suitable tool for this task." At hearing this, Dick immediately clamped his mouth closed, hiding his fangs protectively. He then started hitting the top of the box nervously, vainly trying to lift the lid up.

"Skin the snake by making long, gentle cuts along the length of its body. The serpent's boiled skin should make the knife glide smoother through the scales. The potion will be more potent if you manage to keep the snake alive as long as possible." Harry had to lift the book to hide his smile, when Dick started slamming the glass walls with his head, trying to break them.

"After separating the skin, cut off the snake's head, and then chop the body on even pieces. For the brewing process, keep fangs, skin, blood and some of the muscles. The rest can be thrown away or used as food for other animals," Harry closed the book with a self-satisfied nod and stood up, directing his attention to the snake in front of him. Poor Dick seemed to be in a full-blown panic attack. He kept glancing around him panicky, desperately looking for a way out.

"Well, I guess I should get started," mused Harry as he pulled out one of the switchblades he had confiscated several days ago.

At seeing the knife, Dick froze for a split second, his eye budged out in complete horror. Then, he promptly fell down, and started trashing around the tank, in apparent pain. After a few seconds, his twitches became weaker and further between, while the small snake let go some painful hisses and whimpers. At last, with a few final convulsions, Dick's eye glazed over and his forked tongue rolled out, leaving the perfect impression of a dead snake.

Not being able to hold it any longer, Harry let go of a booming laugh. _He's well rehearsed, I'll give him that, he thought_, while holding his stomach and trying to stop his snickers. »It's all right Dick, you can stop pretending now,« Harry hissed to the little snake in Parseltongue.

At hearing this, Dick's head snapped up, his eye looking at Harry incredulously. »You... you... speak? You... are Parselmouth? And you've been pretending...« Then his eye narrowed in annoyance. »Hey! You pranked me!«

Harry smiled and replied, »Yes, sorry about that. The opportunity was just too good to pass up.«

Dick grumbled a little but then tensed again and gave Harry a suspicious look. »You really aren't gonna kill me? You aren't working for... him?«

Harry gave the snake a confused look. »Him? You mean... Voldemort?«

»Yes, Tom.«

»No, I'm most definitely not working for...« Harry started but then tensed, throwing the snake a suspicious stare. »How did you know Voldemort's real name?«

The snake cringed, realizing his mistake. »Err... Are you sure you're not working for... Voldemort?«

»No, I don't think you'll be seeing your master anytime soon,« replied Harry coldly, already regretting the decision to purchase this snake. _He had obviously been in contact with Voldemort. Who knows what secrets he might snitch out to him if he's ever allowed to see him again?_

His musings were interrupted when the snake spoke in apparent relief. »Good. Thank Merlin for that. I'm not going anywhere near that traitor ever again if I can help it,« Dick grumbled.

»Traitor?« asked surprised Harry, before his eyes narrowed again. »Just what kind of relationship do you have with Voldemort?«

Dick seemed very nervous and reluctant to answer that question. »Err... you see, I've met him a few weeks... years back and... and he kinda...«

Harry rolled his eyes at Dick's obvious attempt at inventing a lie. _Well, what else to expect from someone who'd spent the last fifteen years surrounded by, for all intents and purposes, a bunch of morons_, he mused.

»Look, I'm not one of your little idiot palls back from the shop. You either tell me the whole truth or you're back to the ingredients bin,« snapped Harry, glaring at the snake coldly.

»Alright, alright no more bullshit. Just promise me you'll hear me out, alright?« said Dick.

»I'm listening« said Harry impassively.

»Well... you see... I'm kinda... Tom's familiar,« said Dick carefully.

Harry snorted and shook his head. »Yeah, right. Why don't you try again? Everyone knows that Nagini is Voldemort's familiar.«

»Fucking usurper whore! I'm sure that bitch would like nothing better than to grab Tom for herself, but I've gotten better of her. I may have lost my eye, but I survived! And she'll never become Tom's familiar as long as I live!«

Harry just blinked confusedly at the little snake's angry rant. Relaxing a little after deciding that Dick is definitely against Voldemort, Harry lolled back in the couch and said, »Why don't you start from the beginning?«

**

* * *

**

Dick's earliest memories were of an orphanage and a young human boy named Tom Riddle. Tom often spoke to him and other snakes in the wilderness surrounding the Stockwell Orphanage. Eventually, a sort of a pact had been formed between the two parties. The snakes would provide protection for Tom and generally freak the other children out. In return, Tom would use his newfound social position to acquire enough food for himself and what was practically his first group of followers. Back then, Dick was just an ordinary snake, no brighter than any other, and this deal was good enough for him.

However, everything changed once Tom received a strange letter, with an invitation to a school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, somewhere in Scotland highlands. After talking to a funny old man in rainbow-coloured dress, Tom had informed his followers that he would be able to take only one of them with him. After some deliberation and a few fights breaking out amongst the snakes, Dick was the one chosen for this holy task, primarily because of his small size for an adder, which was in contrast with his lethal poison.

Thus, Dick found himself in a new, strange environment, filled with talking paintings, moving staircases and floating ghosts. At first, he was spending most of his time coiled around Tom's arm, ready to strike at whoever tried to bully his human for his worn-out clothes and half-blood status. Still, Tom himself was a far cry from some whiny pushover. In the next few years, he completely turned the tables on his would-be tormentors, becoming the unofficial leader of the Slytherin house.

Alongside his normal studies, Tom soon started experimenting with various forbidden magics, and especially some basic dark rituals. At the time, Dick naturally knew nothing about it. He only noticed that his human started throwing strange colourful lights at him and making him drink foul-tasting liquids. He even did some strange thing with smearing foul paste all over the floor and than cutting some Hufflepuff pet kneazle's throat. In wake of that incident, Dick's intelligence and memory had experienced steady growth. Coupled with his growing understanding of the English language, Dick started to realize that Tom was using some very forbidden and dark spells and potions to slowly infuse him with magic, basically turning him into a magical creature. He didn't mind that at all.

The biggest challenge for the pair came in Tom's fifth year. At the beginning of that year, Tom and Dick have finally discovered the entrance to what Tom had called 'The Chamber of Secrets'. In there, Tom had unwittingly released Slytherin's pet basilisk from his enchanted slumber. The beast immediately requested to be released upon what it called the unworthy students, namely the Muggleborn children. Of course, Tom would have had none of it, if there weren't for a catch. Behind basilisk's chamber lay Slytherin's personal library. Hundred of dark tomes, many of which written by the founder himself, were just sitting there, begging to be read. Unfortunately, the cunning founder had protected his collection well. The books, most of which were written in Parseltongue, could not be taken away from the library. Furthermore, the entrance to the chamber could be gained only with the help of the chamber's basilisk guardian; the beast that had a nasty habit of spending its free time by slithering through the castle and wrecking havoc amongst the 'filthy Mudblood traitors'. Needless to say, these restrictions were a big obstacle for Tom, who was at the time desperately trying to keep up a low profile and stay away from Dumbledore's clutches.

Thus, began the painstaking process of steering the basilisk away from creating too much of a ruckus amongst the students. At the same time, Tom was browsing through the library, desperately trying to memorize as much information as humanly possible. A few messages written in blood and some Gryffindors freaked out by strange noises were usually enough to appease the basilisk for a week or two. But every now and then, the beast would request for some more direct measures to be taken against its old master's enemies. At times like this, Tom would select a target and then carefully arrange the attack so that unfortunate student would only see a reflection of the basilisk's eyes. The last thing Tom needed was for the school to shut down due to some stupid Mudblood's untimely demise. The other students would find private tutors, or transfer to the other schools, but Tom would only get kicked right back to the orphanage.

Still, despite Tom's best efforts, the panic had spread through the wizarding world. The old headmaster was having harder and harder time keeping the parents from pulling their children away from school. Only the fact that World War II was in full swing above Britain made them keep the kids safely inside Hogwarts' wards.

And then, the inevitable happened. That whiny dolt, Myrtle, managed to stumble upon the basilisk during one of Tom's bogus missions, and get her stupid self killed. Tom knew he was in trouble now - the school was bound to get closed down and all the students sent home. Thankfully, Dick came out to his rescue. He told Tom of the time he had stumbled upon a large Gryffindor student and his dangerous Acromantula pet. Tom immediately acted upon the information, and the disaster has been averted. Still, under the transfiguration teacher's scrutiny, Tom was forced to place the basilisk back under the enchanted sleep spell and close the Chamber of Secrets down. He decided that he had gathered enough knowledge for the moment and that the rest could wait for his glorious return as the next world leader.

The biggest consequence of that whole year for Dick came after performing a ritual that Slytherin had initially designed and Tom managed to reproduce from one of the founder's diaries. After sneaking out to the Forbidden Forest and sacrificing a Demiguise that one of Tom's rich Slytherin 'friends' had donated, Dick had gained very useful ability to become disillusioned at will. Unfortunately, that upgrade, coupled with some of the Tom's previous experiments, made him completely unsuitable for any further rituals. But Dick didn't mind at all - he had come a long way from just another stupid snake living under a rock in some overgrown back yard.

The last two Hogwarts years were quite uneventful for the little snake. Tom was lying low, solidifying his alliances amongst the Slytherin students and building up his plans for the future. Dick was spending most of his time disillusioned, spying upon other students and passing information back to his human friend. The biggest event during that period came in Tom's seventh year. At the Halloween, he performed an ancient bonding ritual, making Dick into his official familiar. Later that year, Tom had graduated with highest distinctions, as the first student in his class. While receiving his diploma, Dick was firmly curled around his arm.

Following years were a blur for the little snake. Constant travels around the world, training under various masters, seeking out rare volumes, gathering finances and allies and of course, performing highly dangerous, experimental rituals. Dick was there all the way, witnessing every step of his bonded transformation from an ambitious little boy, into a ruthless Dark Lord. Dick also noticed that his aging was unnaturally prolonged, but he attributed that to various rituals that were performed upon him in his youth.

Finally, the time had come for Tom to return to England and put his plans into motion. That moment also signalled the breaking of paths between the Dark Lord and his long-time companion. The first indication that something was seriously wrong was Tom's request that none of his new followers were to see the two of them together. Alarm bells started ringing in Dick's head when Tom acquired a young Amazonian anaconda named Nagini and started carrying her around at all times. Dick was just about to confront his bonded about his plans, when he was hit by a stunner. He woke up inside a cage, Lord Voldemort looking at him sadly from the other side of the bars.

Tom immediately started apologizing for what he was about to do. He explained that, as a Dark Lord, he had a certain reputation to uphold. A two-foot snake, however magical or faithful it was, just wasn't awe-inspiring enough to be recognized as the Dark Lord's official familiar. Furthermore, a peaceful parting of ways wasn't possible because of the familiarity bond between them. He explained that this bond occupied specific part of person's 'soul', called the _Anima Animantis_. Unfortunately, this special place could be used only for a single purpose, be it Animagus transformation, werewolf curse or a single 'familiarity' bond with a certain magical animal. Tom sheepishly explained that this bond would have to be severed forcefully, before the new one could be formed between himself and Nagini. He then added that Dick would be used in a ritual that would transfer all of his memories to Nagini, who was gleefully watching the proceedings from above Tom's shoulder.

Dick was, to say mildly, appalled by this treachery. He briefly considered pleading for his life and calling on his life-long friendship with Tom, but he immediately realized the futileness of that act. Dick had always known that Tom strived for absolute power, and used concepts like loyalty, tradition, love and friendship only as tools on this quest. Dick just never imagined that he would ever be the one to end up on the receiving end of this philosophy.

After a few more apologies and some parting words, Tom and Nagini had left the room. That was the last time Dick had seen his bonded in person. His subsequent years were heavily marked by the shadow of his former friend, but some final words are yet to be exchanged.

Several minutes later, another man entered the room. With a pang of dread, Dick recognized Voldemort's main potion master. His job was to prepare Dick for the ritual, by 'harvesting' a few body parts needed as a blood-base for the ritual's potions. He put Dick under the Impedimenta curse and released him from the cage. The man then started preparing his tools at a leisurely rate, while Dick was helplessly watching him, lying immobilized on the desktop. And that was the biggest and last mistake the potion master had ever made.

Tom's need-to-know policy was very useful for an illegal organization, such as his little circle of conspirators, but in this case, it had spectacularly backfired upon its creator. The potion master had no idea that his master had performed a number of rituals on Dick, imparting him with a fair dose of magic. For him, Dick was just an ordinary adder that should have stayed under the curse for at least an hour.

Still, it was a very close call. Only with the adrenaline shock he had received when the man started cutting his eye out did Dick manage to shake off the curse and bite the potion master's hand. Still hurting from the cut and betrayal, Dick viciously bit a few more times, letting all of his frustration and anger spill out. The old man quickly fell down convulsing on the floor, poison from the bite on his neck quickly reaching his central nervous system. From then on, it was ridiculously easy for Dick to disillusion himself, slip through the halls of Voldemort's base of operation and sneak out with some Death Eaters, using the secure floo connection.

But Dick's problems were far from over. He knew that Tom would soon learn of his escape and activate his spying network to search for him. Besides Tom, Dick was the only one who knew about this network, and that was only because he had helped create it.

Everyone knew that, after his return to Britain, Tom had made it his business to create a vast network of allies and associates all over the country. But what no one except Dick knew was that this network included snakes as well as people. Tom and Dick had spent one whole year doing nothing but travelling around the country and speaking with wild snakes. Actually, Tom had made quite a name for himself amongst the British serpent population. Man-speaker, they called him, spreading the word of this strange man-serpent over the grapevine.

During his quest, Tom had selected more than three hundred snakes evenly spread out across Britain and altered them into beacons of a sort he could use to spread out his orders. A few simple rituals were all it took for Tom to enchant the serpents' intelligence, add a mild suggestive aura around them, link their minds to several nexus objects in his possession and generally make them into his zealous followers.

If Tom ever needed to locate a person, all he had to do was find an item carrying said person's scent and then perform a few spells of his own design on one of his nexus objects. Information about the target's scent would immediately travel to the minds of hundreds of his snake acolytes all over the country. They would then spread the word of the man-speaker's target to any snake they could find in their immediate vicinity, with instructions to spread on. The mild suggestive aura his acolytes were radiating made sure that memory of the great man-speaker's request, along with promises of rich rewards for the finder, stayed permanently etched in the dim-witted snakes' minds.

Thus, Tom had achieved with British snakes what was his ultimate ambition with humans all over the world - he became their God, with his modified zealots acting like organized religion and manipulating general populace into doing his bidding. Many light wizards who tried to hide themselves in huts and cabins of the British countryside were mightily surprised when Death Eaters knocked on their door, after one of Tom's zealots sent off mind-signal, snitching out their location.

Thus, Dick knew that it was only a matter of time before he was found out and captured. Tom's serpentine network was slow to activate, but once the word has spread, there was no place in Britain safe for the target. Thankfully, Dick came up with a brilliant idea on how to hide himself. _The best way to hide is in plain view,_ he thought, as he found his way into Diagon Alley public floo and then slithered to Magical Menagerie. He allowed himself to get captured and put up in a cage with other snakes. Inside, he was finally safe from his ex-friend's intelligence network. Snakes inside the cage were freshly bred and had no idea of the outside world. And even if some zealot happened to pass nearby, the smell of the other snakes in the cage would easily hide Dick's own scent, protecting him from the pursuit.

Dick had spent next several years in that cage, lying low and generally trying to stay out of sight. His injury proved to be a blessing here, making sure that he was not sold out as someone's cute little pet. He was also displaying just enough of his unique abilities to keep the owner, Sheridan, interested in him, but still didn't make himself look important enough for her to blab around much.

Then, several years later, Dick had sensed a giant impact coming through his familiarity bond. Tom's treachery had somewhat weakened the link, but it was still strong enough for Dick to sense that Tom was hurt really badly and hiding somewhere far away. This was confirmed by listening in to the people visiting the shop, before all the snakes were removed from the honorary place up in the front, and dumped in a dusty corner, far away from the public view.

Dick knew that Tom's entire organization was probably in disarray and that he would have a good chance of slipping through the countryside and out of Britain. But then, what used to be his salvation, turned into a prison. His initial display of power and intelligence was now working against him, making sure that his every escape attempt was eventually discovered and prevented. After some time, it all turned into a game, a pastime to make Dick's prison life more interesting and his place in the shop secured.

Tom's return two years ago hadn't changed much at all, save for better living conditions. Dick had already resigned himself to spending the rest of his life in captivity.

**

* * *

**

»And then I came into the picture,« finished Harry Dick's life story.

»Yes... I'm grateful for you buying me off and all, but don't think that I'm not mad anymore for that prank you've pulled,« warned Dick.

Harry just nodded numbly, still trying to process all that he had heard from his new pet. Then he started snickering and shaking his head.

»What?« asked Dick.

»It's funny. You've just told me all this stuff, about Slytherin's personal library and Voldemort's top-secret intelligence network and the way Snape had gotten his ticket to the Inner Circle, but all I can think of is... Why in the world would Dark Lord Voldemort name his familiar 'Dick?',« Harry snorted and shook his head again.

»Don't be ridiculous!,« snapped the snake peevishly. »I was named Dick in the pet-shop. Tom had actually called me...« But then he stopped in mid-sentence.

»What? Come on, you can tell me,«

Dick murmured something under his breath, looking very embarrassed all of a sudden.

»What?« Harry asked.

»It was Baron Gottschalk Ophiuchus Goebbels the Second, OK?« snapped Dick irritably. »As a kid, Tom has had this fascination with a guy named Hitler and the muggle country he'd been lording over at the time. He used to go on for hours at end, yapping about this bloke's charisma and discipline and ruthlessness, yada, yada, yada. Boy, that kid could talk. If you think my name was bad, you should hear some of the other names he gave to his snakes,« explained Dick, trying to overpower Harry's snickering.

»'Goebbels the Second?' What the hell happened with the first one?« Harry managed to stutter through his laughter.

»Was a small fellow, got eaten by one of the orphans' pet cats,« Dick mumbled embarrassedly, starting a new bout of laughter from Harry. »Ok, ok, enough about names. God knows I've had enough bad luck with them!« snapped Dick just when Harry was about to ask another question.

»Enough bad luck?« asked sobered Harry. »Why, what's wrong with Dick? Actually, now that I think about it, who in the world would name a snake 'Dick,' anyway?«

»Nobody, it's just... it doesn't matter, really...« murmured Dick embarrassedly.

»Oh come on, do tell. I won't laugh... much,« Harry said eagerly.

»Well, at first, everyone just kept calling me 'one-eyed snake'. And then, someone just blurted out 'dick'. They played for a while with 'prick' and 'cock' as well, but in the end, 'Dick' kinda stuck around...« The little snake gave Harry an annoyed look, his words lost in a new bout of laughter. »Yes, yes laugh it out. I should have just stayed in my bush and told Riddle to go screw himself and his human customs,« the little snake muttered irritably.

Harry's laughter was rudely interrupted when 'his' phoenix suddenly flew in into the tent and settled down on top of the nearby bookshelf. He was obviously back from another one of his daily excursions to Lord knows where. Harry suspected that these disappearances were nothing more sinister than simple hunting trips, seeing how the bird stubbornly refused any kind of food Harry had offered him. Still, there was always a pang of fear that the bird would one day return bringing his true master along with him; Or that he wouldn't return at all. In this past week and a half, Harry has actually gotten quite used to the phoenix's silent companionship. It felt nice to have someone looking after him, ready to help out in case of emergency, but otherwise staying out of his way.

As soon as he settled down, the phoenix whipped his head around and gave Dick a penetrating look. For a moment there, something akin to recognition shone in the bird's huge eyes, before he turned back to observing the room in general, seemingly forgetting all about the snake.

At the same time, Dick was franticly flicking his tongue in the air, tasting the new scent in the room. All the while, he was watching the bird intently, unreadable glint in his eye.

»Is that truly a phoenix?« he asked Harry, almost incredulously.

»Yes, I believe he is,« he answered, ignoring a dirty look he had received from the said bird.

Dick said nothing, but just kept staring at the bird, as if afraid he would disappear if he looked away.

»Err, Dick? Are you OK there?« Harry interrupted the ensued silence.

»Eh? Oh, I'm fine, never mind... Err, it won't try to eat me, right?« he asked, glancing back at the pompous looking bird.

"Hey, Blue! You be a good boy and stay away from Dick here, OK?" said Harry to the phoenix. The bird gave Harry another angry glare, and then huffed and straightened himself up imperiously, as if Harry's concerns were too much below his level to even earn his attention.

»Err, I think that means 'no',« said Harry to Dick unsurely.

»Good. But just so you know, if that damn featherhead go out and eats me, I won't speak to you ever again,« said the snake back with some conviction.

Harry nodded back, deciding to hold back a sarcastic comment and get their conversation back on track. Dick was fun to talk with, but he had a job to do.

»Ok, Dick, I'll keep that in mind. Now, would you like to know why I bought you in the first place? And no, it's not for the potion ingredients,« he added as he saw Dick's eyes dart to the discarded potions book.

»Why?« Dick asked apprehensively.

»I need a snake to help me fight Tom, your old master.«

Dick's eye's narrowed in suspicion. »Are you sure you know what are you doing? Tom is a backstabbing bastard alright, but he's good. Very good. Actually, he's probably the most dangerous human I've ever met.«

»I won't lie to you. Even thought our magical powers should be about the same, I'm nowhere near his skill level and knowledge. That's where you come in. I have a few plans that should help me reach his level faster, but I need your help to make them work.«

»Hmm... And you need me as a partner in crime, so to speak? Not a pet, or a tool to throw away once you're done with it?«

Harry gave Dick a penetrating look. »I won't deny that your knowledge would be a great asset in the fight against Voldemort. But the truth is... in a way... I really need some companionship.« Harry shifted nervously but kept his eyes trailed on Dick. He was never before this direct with his feelings, but he figured that little fellow deserved his complete honesty, after all he's been through. »You see, there's no way I could command any kind of respect from other people, least of all Aurors, with my current skills and general magical knowledge. So, I'll have to be in this thing alone for a very long time to come. I guess what I'm saying is... I really could use someone to talk to every once in a while; You know, bounce ideas, talk about weather, anything to keep me sane.« finished Harry, his eyes locked with Dick's, trying to relay sincerity.

After a few seconds, Dick was the one to break the silence. »I'm out of cages for good.«

»Done.«

»And you are not my master, but partner. I'm doing this on my own free will.«

»Understandable.«

»And... And I get to kill that bitch Nagini.«

»She's all yours,« reassured Harry, not exactly sure how was his new friend intending to deal with that monstrosity.

»Deal!«

»Shake hands for it?«

»Sur... Hey!«

Harry just snickered as he removed Dick from the tank and banished it to his storage room. He then lolled back comfortably, letting Dick slither over his stomach.

»Well now,« hissed Dick from Harry's chest, »why don't we start by you giving me your life story, since I've already given you mine? And then we can discuss finer points of this big plan of yours.«

»Hey, since when are you the one calling the shots around here?« replied Harry indignantly.

»Alright, oh wise one. Why don't you tell me what we should do? 

»Well... It wouldn't be a bad idea for me to give you a general rundown of my history, since we'll be working together from now on...« Harry mussed. »And then, I guess I should explain to you what will your job be in the scheme I've planned for tonight.«

»Hey, that's what I said!«

»But I said it in generally bossier and less democratic way,« Harry explained patiently.

»Oh, whatever, why don't you just begin with that drivel of yours,« sighed Dick in annoyance.

»It's good to see such an eager audience,« Harry grumbled, before he started retelling Dick about his upbringing with the Dursleys.

**

* * *

**

Augustus Rookwood was utterly and completely bored. As much as he liked learning new things and researching, there was only so long a person could spend locked up in small space, before going stir-crazy. He was starting to get unpleasant flashbacks of his long stretch in Azkaban simply by looking at his current accommodations.

He was currently sitting on a cosy chair at his work-desk, surrounded by heaps and heaps of heavy books, ancient manuscripts and parchments with his own Arithmancy formulas and calculations. While the upper floor contained his bedroom, bathroom and storage for materials, the whole ground level was a single spacious room.

It was illuminated only by ominous floating candles, seeing as all the windows were barred and warded against intrusions. Except for his desk, a large bookcase and a single armchair facing a fireplace disconnected from the floo network, all of which were crammed along a single wall, the room was completely bare. The entire central clearing was filled with faded runes and ruined ritualistic implements, as well as pockmarked by scorch-marks - the results of Rookwood's failed experiments. After all, ritualistic magic was a very tricky subject, where even the smallest mistake could lead to disastrous consequences. Modifying rituals or inventing new ones was even more dangerous, not to mention highly illegal. If there weren't for the heavy wards around the house, the Unspeakables would have barged in a long time ago.

Rookwood's musings were interrupted by the familiar sound of a password being hissed in Parseltongue and then the clicking sound of a secret door being opened. He looked towards the snake portal, and indeed, there was a small black snake slithering through the circular hole into the room.

_Strange,_ he thought, _there was a meeting only a few days ago. _

Rookwood carefully approached the snake, idly noticing that it was missing an eye. _Why would master keep around a crippled servant_, he wondered, while scanning the snake with a standardized set of detection spells. Having made sure that the messenger snake hadn't been conjured, coerced or in any way magically influenced, Rookwood carefully detached a letter from the snake's 'neck' and opened it.

• • • • •

_Emergency meeting, our position has been compromised. _

_Midnight, the alley between numbers 47 and 49 of Harrington Street. _

_Bring complete documentation. _

_LV _

• • • • •

_Well, this is highly irregular_, Rookwood frowned suspiciously, as he checked the parchment for his master's customized signature spell. His suspicions were confirmed when his scan returned negative. Also, the whole writing style and appearance of the letter was somehow wrong, while still carrying the undeniable traits of the Dark Lord's writing style. Rookwood went over the little inconsistencies he had noticed and quickly summarized that this was the form his Lord had been using during his first upraising.

_But then again_, he mused, _if it was really written during some emergency, the Dark Lord could have been distracted by other concerns. In confusion, he could have reverted to his old habits and forgotten to cast his signature spell... _

Still, even with all his self-reassurances, this whole business seemed highly suspicious to Rookwood. He couldn't shake the feeling that someone was trying to set him up. He snickered and shook his head at that thought.

_Who am I kidding? Even if the message had been written with a muggle ballpoint pen on a piece of toilet paper, I would have obeyed it,_ he thought dejectedly, as he started packing up his research papers and notes. He would rather risk meeting whoever was trying to set him up, than facing his Lord's wrath for standing him up.

_Still, it would be foolish to go out there unprepared_, he decided. Then, he retrieved a small golden locket from the desk drawer and started waving his wand over it.

**

* * *

**

Rookwood approached the entrance to a dingy, blocked-off alley specified in the letter exactly five minutes before midnight. He rechecked the pockets of his robes and found the shrunken package with his work in the left pocket and his wand in the right one. Squeezing his wand for reassurance, he brusquely walked down the alley, steering around mounds of trash. He felt a slight flicker of temporary wards, indicating that he was indeed in the right place. He walked all the way to the brick wall at the end of the alley, finding nothing but piles and piles of trash, scattered around overflowing trashcans. With a distasteful sneer, he turned around towards the entrance, wondering when his Lord would arrive. He never saw a wand appearing out of a thin air behind his back.

• • • • •

Harry watched from underneath his invisibility cloak as Rookwood approached him, looking around suspiciously, squeezing something in his pocket, presumably his wand. Harry flattened himself against the brick wall at the end of the alley, watching as Rookwood stopped a mere few feet away from him. He watched as the man threw another distasteful glance at the overflowing trashcans and then whirled back towards the entrance.

_Now_, Harry decided as he pushed his wand through the hem of the cloak and cast a silent "_Stupefy._"

_Like a walk in a park_, he thought gleefully, as he watched the red beam approaching the unsuspecting Rookwood's back. However, Harry's silent celebration turned into a shock when a bright light flared from his target's chest, forming a brilliant golden shield that easily absorbed the stunner.

_Shield amulet, damn it!_ Harry mentally cursed, as he quietly sidestepped to the left just moments before Rookwood fired a bludgeoning curse at his previous position.

Harry cursed himself for forgetting about anti-assassination amulets, even though they were designed to prevent exactly the thing he had tried to pull tonight. They worked by detecting offensive spells or objects heading towards the wearer and flaring a very powerful shield to absorb the attack. Rookwood had obviously suspected something, so he charged his amulet before appearing here tonight. Fortunately, most amulets were designed to spend their entire stored energy in a single discharge. After all, they were intended to prevent assassinations, not to be used as regular shields during the battle, for which they couldn't store enough magic anyway. All Harry needed now to down Rookwood was another free shot.

Harry flicked his wand from underneath his cloak, pushing raw energy towards some trashcans on his right. Small magical burst rolled a few discarded soda cans over the pavement, making Rookwood whirl to his left and quickly fire several revealing spells. In the meantime, Harry took a few more quiet steps to the left and once again found himself behind Rookwood's back.

"Stupefy," Harry silently repeated his previous attack. Rookwood suddenly went deadly still, as if realizing something. Next moment, he gracefully whirled around, avoiding the stunner, and yelled out "Azureus pigmentum conjeci".

A huge blob of blue paint headed towards Harry, who was in middle of launching another stunner. Harry's spell burst through the blob, spraying some paint around, but the rest hit Harry dead on, painting his invisibility cloak, along with the wall behind him, in azure blue.

Cursing again his lack of foresight, Harry quickly tapped his head, disillusioning himself. He then magically launched his blue cloak to the right, while he himself ducked to the left, avoiding another one of Rookwood's spells. Even while he ran, he cast three more stunners in quick succession, cancelling his disillusionment spell in the process. He almost caught Rookwood off guard, but the man quickly abandoned his attempts at killing the empty cloak and slashed his glowing wand three times, bouncing the stunners like on a tennis match.

Next moment, both men were standing proudly in a proper duelling stance, trying to stare each other down.

_I guess it's a regular duel for me, then_, Harry sighed apprehensively. _Well, duelling IS my forte, besides flying. How bad can it be?_ Harry tried to encourage himself, as he started the duel by fired a bludgeoning curse at his prey.

• • • • •

_I am so screwed_, Harry thought desperately, as he frantically tried to reverse his duck-like feet back to normal, while sidestepping another one of Rookwood's advanced spells.

It was only few minutes into the duel, but to Harry, it seemed like he had suffered through hours of torture. He was currently sporting a long, Dumbledore-like beard, horse's tail that was repeatedly whipping his arse and already mentioned duck feet, which made dodging the never-ending stream of curses extremely difficult. On the floor beneath him, there were a dozen or so circular booby-traps spread around his feet. He learned the hard way that they released a nasty electrical zapping effect if you stepped on them. Five or six animated mouldy chairs, broken brooms and trashcans were dancing around him, lunging on him every now and then. Walls enclosing the makeshift duelling arena were pockmarked by a variety of colourful lights, which were blinking and flashing, creating a nightclub-like atmosphere. Every now and then, their creator would flick his wand, making some of these lights transform into low-level hexes and hurl themselves at the victim in the centre of the 'dance floor'.

_Yep, I'm in deep shit,_ Harry despaired as he quickly analyzed the situation.

Rookwood, on the other hand, was seemingly having a time of his life. He was effortlessly blocking Harry's spells, all the while firing a constant stream of obscure hexes and jinxes, mockingly explaining their effect to his would-be kidnapper and generally having a jolly good time.

"You like frogs? I hear they are popular amongst you Hufflepuffs!" he yelled through laughter, while directing a group of frog-like hopping curses towards his opponent. Harry had just managed to revert his feet back to normal, when a whole bunch of jinxes 'hopped' at him at once, each one painting him in a different colour and giving him a nasty itch. Harry quickly dispelled the tickling, but was immediately forced to step left, dodging a barrage of dark curses that snickering Rookwood had fired to his right. Unfortunately, he found himself stepping right onto one of the booby-trap, getting properly zapped and then tripped by one of the animated chairs. Harry stumbled, barely managing to block off a brick that the far wall had suddenly spit out at him, before ending sprawled out amongst the overturned trashcans, to Rookwood's never-ending amusement.

"And the amazing duck-man finally returns home!" Rookwood yelled mock-pompously, as he made the chair that had tripped Harry do a little victory dance.

Harry tried to quench his frustration and think of some way to get out of this alive. He recognized Rookwood's mannerisms well enough - only a month ago, he had watched his godfather act the same way during his duel with Lestrange.

_The man had obviously been locked up far too long,_ Harry mused quickly while watching Rookwood laugh at him mockingly. _He's using this opportunity to blow off some steam, while foolishly disregarding the first rule of combat - never underestimate or play with your opponent. Sirius had paid that mistake with his life. Could I use Rookwood's distraction to turn this disaster around? _

Having decided on his course of action, Harry gathered his magic, using his limited knowledge of the techniques he had just began exploring. He then dizzily started standing up, only to intentionally trip over his own transfigured beard and fall back down into garbage, making Rookwood burst into another bout of laughter.

"Some assassin you ar-"

Rookwood never had a chance to finish his taunt, since Harry whipped his wand in a flash and yelled "Lumos!" pumping as much power as possible into the spell, while concentrating on his opponent's face. Rookwood stumbled backward, blinded by a powerful searchlight that had erupted from Harry's wand. Pressing his advantage, Harry angrily whipped his wand at a punctured tambour, part of a discarded drum-set lying nearby, and yelled "Expuo!"

The drum was launched straight at the blinded Rookwood, like a cannonball. The ex-unspeakable instinctively managed to shield himself from this makeshift missile with his bare hands, but the impact pushed him backwards, pinning him against the opposite wall.

In the meantime, Harry had already sprung to his feet, a determined glint in his eyes. His initial intention was to capture Rookwood alive and then use him for the ritual. But all his plans went straight to hell when he overestimated his duelling skills by foolishly stepped into an open battle with a vastly superior opponent. All he could do now was try and save his own skin, prisoners and rituals be damned. There were more potential ingredients out there waiting to be harvested, but he only had one life available. There could be no more screw-ups this night.

_Well, I'll have to kill sooner or later anyway. Why not tonight?_ Harry decided, as he pointed his wand at Rookwood and poured all his frustration and helplessness into a single incantation. "_REDUCTO!_"

Hearing his words, Rookwood quickly raised his wand and yelled "_Exarmo_" in return.

In a split second it took the two curses to pass the width of the street, Harry allowed himself a victorious smirk. He had recognized Rookwood's spell as a more powerful version of Expelliarmus and realized that this was that fatal mistake he'd been hoping for.

_Checkmate, you conceited idiot. I'll just walk over your mangled corpse and take my wand back_, he thought smugly. He never noticed the matching smirk appearing on his opponent's face.

Thus, for the second time that night, Harry was unpleasantly surprised by his own ignorance. His impressive ball of grey-violet chaotic energy smacked straight into Rookwood's chest, only to fizzle out like an expired candle, leaving the target completely unharmed. Harry had just enough time to form a shocked expression on his face, before his opponent's disarmer slammed straight into his chest, throwing him back against the wall, while his wand gently sailed into Rookwood's expecting hand.

Harry painfully stood up, trying to shake the cobwebs from his head, only to be met by a hysterical laughter and twin wands pointed at his chest.

"Such an idiot... the look on your face... it was priceless," Rookwood was snickering, unsuccessfully trying to compose himself.

Even through all the humiliation and defeat, Harry's couldn't help but feel curious about what just went down. "But... but... how?" was all he managed to stutter, gaping confusedly at his unharmed opponent.

"How? How!? What are you, a fucking schoolboy?" Rookwood stopped and then peered more closely at Harry, who was currently sporting brown hair, brown eyes and white beard, but otherwise looked like himself. "Sweet Merlin, you are a schoolboy! What the fuck were you thinking going after me of all people! Are you daft!?"

Harry was intentionally gaping stupidly at Rookwood, while desperately trying to find some way out. He cursed himself for not bringing along his new snake. _You've already done your part Dick, you should leave duelling to me_, he mentally repeated his earlier words in a mocking tone.

"Oh, don't answer that, I see that you are," snickered Rookwood. "Well, I'll humour you this time, seeing how you've brought me so much entertainment with your feebleminded attempt. I'll even explain it to you one baby step at the time, so even you could understand it." He snickered some more, before getting himself under control. "Alright now, you go to Hogwarts, don't you? Don't answer that, judging by your ignorance, you probably do. So, when was it that you learned how to cast the 'Reducto' curse?"

"My... My fourth year... sir," Harry said timidly, still trying to come up with some plan of action. _Maybe I should try to lull him into a false sense of security... Damn it, that wouldn't work twice! _

"Oh, good boy, bravo. And what was the effect you expected this spell to have on me?"

Having decided to keep acting as some misguided kid who had just wanted to pull up a prank, Harry replied timidly, letting himself blush a little. "Well, sir... err, I... I just wanted to blow some garbage up and create a distraction, so that..."

Harry's performance was interrupted when Rookwood slashed his wand angrily, wielding a whip of raw magic in a graceful arc, straight towards Harry's face. Harry reeled backwards from the invisible slap, holding his throbbing cheek painfully.

"Now, we won't have any of that, boy. Why don't you drop the act and start over?" said Rookwood patiently.

Harry spit mouthful of blood at his feet and then looked the other wizard straight into the eyes, angry sneer on his face. "Actually, I was planning on blowing you up into tiny pieces and then pissing all over your mangled remains, you conceited son of a bitch!"

"Now, isn't that better?" replied smiling Rookwood, completely unfazed by Harry's words. "So, here is the final question for tonight. Do you honestly believe that Hogwarts staff would teach 14-year-old children a curse that could blow up their classmates into... what was it you said? Tiny pieces? So you could take a piss on them? Which is very unhygienic, by the way, not to mention disgusting."

The only response Harry managed to produce was a blank stare. He had always thought of Reductor curse as a magical equivalent of bazooka, or at least a shotgun. Now that he thought about it more thoroughly, Rookwood's argument made perfect sense. His own idea of the curse's effect would have made it more dangerous than even Avada Kedavra, which was ludicrous.

"The answer is no," Rookwood interrupted his musing with some heat. "Each spell taught at those cesspools of public schools has Ministry-enforced safety measures against any kind of alternative usage or causing harm to other people. Do you know how much magic all that shit drains? Simply by using spells without that Ministry-regulated crap will get you at least 20 percent power increase! Just think about it! Layer upon layer of safety switches, security features, ever power reducers! Yes, they intentionally block off your full potential, so they can keep you sheep at check. 'To prevent accidents and misuse' my arse! You wouldn't believe the things I've seen while working for those bastards!"

Above Rookwood's shoulder, Harry spotted his phoenix standing on a rooftop, watching the scene with unreadable eyes. _Thank god, the cavalry had arrived_, he sighed in relief, as he gave the phoenix a significant look and nodded his head slightly. He prepared himself for action, expecting the bird to swoop down any moment now and take him away from danger.

"Generation upon generation of great wizards had dedicated their entire lives trying to create the foundations of modern magical theory and elevate wizardkind above the common stock living in the gutter. To give us the power and higher understanding of Gods themselves! And all the fruits of their labour are now being spit upon by these power-hungry bureaucratic _simpletons_, who care only about keeping their own petty political power, since they have no magical or intellectual to boot."

Harry was starting to get really aggravated. _Come on, you stupid turkey, now is your chance. What the fuck are you waiting for? Move your feathery butt and do something useful for once_, he mumbled in his mind, trying not to give himself away by glaring over Rookwood's shoulder. The phoenix however, stayed impassive, just staring at the scene with unreadable expression on his face.

"We wizards had a chance to heighten our understanding of the world around us to a higher spiritual level, to discover the true nature of universe and magic, to find the meaning of life itself! But no, thanks to power-hungry mediocrities, who thought that free flow of knowledge is too big of a threat for their precious swamp of mediocrity they call the state, the height of our advancement these days is rediscovery of lore that had been lost thousands of years ago! While muggles dwell into the nature of matter itself and travel to the Moon, the greatest achievement of our superior kind are new broom models and improved versions of fucking household charms!"

_He's not coming_, Harry suddenly realized, glancing at the stock-still bird with accusing eyes. This phoenix had been following him for more than ten days now, and during that time, he had never intervened with anything Harry had been doing. _He didn't step up when I was practicing illegal magic_, Harry thought with a sinking realization. _Why would he do so now?_

Once again, he wondered what his companion's motives truly were, but he quickly abandoned that line of thoughts. He had more important things to do now, like staying alive. He refocused his attention back at Rookwood, just in time to hear the end of his rant.

"Learning advanced spells? Suppressed! Individual magical research? Forbidden! Free exploration of special talents? Controlled! You can't do shit without seven Ministry forms in triplicate sticking from your arse! They are turning our chosen race destined for greatness into a herd of mindless sheep, content on living their puny little lives, listening to whatever corrupted half-squibs in power tells them to do! Well, no more! I'm not your fucking slave, you rotten bastards! Fuck you and your ministry and your fucking unspeakable rules! My Lord will purge your corruption and incompetence and steer our kind back towards the path to greatness! Nothing can stop us from fulfilling our destiny!" Rookwood finished his rant, panting heavily from all the yelling he had done. He visibly struggled to pull himself together and get his temper under control.

_So that's why he had joined Voldemort_, Harry mused, slightly taken back by the man's spiel. From Joseph's report, he already suspected that Rookwood wasn't your typical enforcer, relishing in torture of other human beings. Still, he never imagined him to be such an idealist.

"Hmm... Got a little carried away there," he muttered, trying to clear his throat. "You think I'm a fool, don't you kid? Filthy Death Eater? Traitor? Murderer?"

Harry just remained silent, still trying to come up with any feasible escape plan, since his phoenix 'friend' obviously wasn't coming to his rescue anytime soon.

"Won't answer me, eh? Never mind, then. Since you won't be getting out of here alive, it's not like your opinion matters anyway," Rookwood said calmly, his face struggling to form a blank mask.

Harry couldn't help but widen his eyes in fear. He glanced again at 'his' phoenix with a pleading look in his eyes. _Come on, move your butt. You wouldn't want your favourite source of entertainment to bite the dust, would you? _

The phoenix seemed unsettled for a moment there, but then he straightened himself up imperiously and stared down at Harry with exaggerated passivity. If there weren't for a soft breeze ruffling his feathers, he could as well been mistaken for a stone statue.

With a sinking feeling in his guts, Harry finally realized that the phoenix's mind was already set. The bird would keep standing there stock-still, and nothing Rookwood did to Harry would make him move away from his vantage point. Suddenly, an image of an old TV show flashed before Harry's eyes. Some naturalist guy was explaining the laws of nature, while in the background, a pack of lions was wearing down a mother buffalo protecting her foal. The reporter explained that he was only an observer and that he shouldn't interfere with the natural course of events. _This had happened hundreds of times before and will happen hundreds of times again_, he explained in monotone, as lions started tearing apart the foal, at its mother's distressed cries. Harry briefly wondered whether 'his' phoenix would do exactly that - watch him get executed by Rookwood and then find some other human fool to follow around.

For a moment there, Harry tried to blame the bird for 'betraying him' and 'abandoning him when things got rough'. However, the logical part of his brain quickly summarized that the phoenix was simply staying true to his initial 'no interference' policy. Harry realized that it was his own fault for attributing to his relationship with the bird more that it truly was. In retrospect, it was naïve of him to think of the bird as of 'his phoenix' and consider him for an ally and even a friend, even though the bird had done nothing to deserve such titles, nor did he indicate he even wanted them in the first place.

Reality of Harry's situation suddenly sunk in. There would be no miraculous rescue for him this time. No mother's protection being tested, no Fawkes appearing with the sorting hat, no mysterious clues being given a the right moment, no invisible wizard clearing away the traps in front of him, no cavalry arriving at the last moment. This was not a controlled environment, with an invisible headmaster watching from the sidelines, leading him by his nose towards his next test. There was no omnipotent puppeteer to stop the game when it gets too rough and make sure all his dolls survive for a new round next year. Harry was playing in the major league now, where his wit and skills were fairly matched against his opponent's. And the truth of the matter was, he lost. Rather spectacularly too. And in this sort of a game, one defeat was all it took to lose the war. And life.

"Surprised, boy? What, you didn't honestly expect me to simply let you walk out of here alive, no harm done?" said Rookwood, looking slightly nervous at his own words. "You walked into this yourself. You knew what was going to happen to you should you fail. You can't blame me for protecting myself against would be assassins. If you were in my place, you'd do the same thing... With weaker curses, of course, but that doesn't change the fact that..."

Harry tuned out Rookwood's self-motivational speech, stronger than ever hit with the hopelessness of his situation. Suddenly, showing his true form and requesting an audience with Voldemort became a viable solution for Harry. Of course, he was well aware that it would only extend his life for a little while longer, not save it. But maybe, there was a chance of Snape informing the headmaster of his position and then the old man mounting a rescue operation. _Yes, I would be back in his clutches, but I would at least be alive_, he thought rationally. Of course, there was still a small matter of holding some piece of information over Voldemort and then lasting through the torture long enough for the cavalry to arrive...

_No_, Harry decided with a newfound resolution, angry with himself for even thinking about giving up his freedom at the first sign of trouble. _I started this fight on my own. I'm sure as hell gonna to finish it on my own, one way or the other. If I can't deal with fucking Rookwood, what's the point of going after Voldemort at all? I might as well kill myself now and spare everyone the trouble..._

Shaking his head from these thoughts, he returned to his previous efforts of finding some way to escape relatively unharmed. _There has to be a way,_ he repeated over and over again, while systematically analyzing his surrounding, intentionally avoiding the traitorous phoenix on the roof.

In the meantime, Rookwood had finished his babbling, almost choking himself in the process. He took a deep breath and sighed, almost mournfully, blank expression returning on his face. "You obviously have some sort of a feud with me. Whether it's because of someone I've killed or someone I've betrayed, it doesn't really matter. I'm sorry kid, but I simply can't let you go away scot free and then spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder," he finished emotionlessly, but the nervous twirling of Harry's wand in his left hand gave away his true state of mind. The man was obviously not used to killing people cold-bloodedly, which was probably why he was procrastinating by engaging himself in pointless explanations, excuses and small talk.

At this point, Harry was starting to get truly desperate. His eyes were darting around faster and faster, looking for any opportunity to escape. Suddenly, his attention was caught by his own wand that Rookwood was distractedly twirling like a propeller in front of his chest. He remembered a scene from exactly one year ago; Darkness surrounding him... Dudley crying... Him yelling "Lumos!" making his wand light up from a few feet away. He remembered researching this effect later on in the Hogwarts library. The book said that this was possible only with wands extremely compatible with their owners. He tried it out a few times then, but nothing came out of it. He was then dragged out of the library by the bored-looking Ron, making him forget all about his 'useless' project. _Yes_, he decided, _this could actually work_.

The problem was that his old wand was safely tucked away back in his tent. He had intentionally left it there, afraid that he could get captured by Death Eaters, arrested by Aurors or get hurt and end up in a hospital. That was why he had made sure there was nothing on him connecting him in any way with the name 'Harry Potter'. He even erased his father's name from the hem of his Invisibility cloak. _But no use crying over spilled milk_, he reprimanded himself, getting back to the problem at hand.

The big question now was whether he could pull off the same thing with his new wand as well as with the old one. Judging by the same amount of power generated by both wands, he concluded there was a solid chance for this to work. Furthermore, with his newfound basic understanding of direct power manipulation, he was certain he would be able to push his magic towards his wand, even without additional emotional backing caused by two Dementors chasing after him.

"So, any last words?" deadpanned Rookwood, pointing his wand at Harry's chest.

Harry concentrated harder than ever, gathering his magic inside him. He was pushing all his frustration, fear and anger into a tiny ball of magic in his palm, his eyes never leaving the wand in Rookwood's hand. The ball steadily grew stronger, itching to break through and spill over into a nonexistent wand. His eyes bore a hole into his own wand, trying to form a magical connection over the few feet of space separating them. _Just a little longer..._ His right palm started tingling, as if begging to reconnect itself with a piece of wood that rightfully belonged in it. _Almost there..._

"No? Well then... It was a nice effort kid, but you shouldn't have messed with your betters. AVADA..."

_Now!_ his instincts screamed.

"RICTUSEMPRA!" Harry yelled with all his might, his whole being concentrated on a piece of wood in Rookwood's hand. With a burst of sparks, a highly distorted tickling charm erupted from a wand Rookwood was foolishly pointing towards his own face. Rookwood stumbled backwards, somehow managing to avoid the weak spell, but he was distracted long enough for Harry to lunge forward, tackling the older man by his waist. They both flew several feet backwards, ending tangled up amongst the trashcans, both wands lost in the heaps of garbage around them.

What followed was a combination of wrestling match, mud fight and search operation. Both men were using any means available to interfere with each other, while desperately searching through piles of trash for their lost wands. Harry would kick Rookwood in the nuts, stopping the man from yanking his beard. Rookwood would then retaliate with an elbow to the boy's kidneys, only to shy away from Harry's fingers going for his eyes. Rookwood would retaliate by spitting straight into Harry's face, and then slapping him away. Harry would return by biting the man's ear, only to find himself getting strangled by his own tail. All the while, they were franticly digging through the trash, carelessly throwing discarded pieces of garbage at each other.

Nobody was quite sure how long this fight lasted. The only thing certain was that, at one point, Rookwood kicked Harry away to the other end of the garbage pit. They both spotted a wand, each at his own end of the 'playground'. Each of them went for his own find as fast as possible, stumbling through the garbage desperate to reach it. Rookwood got there first.

He pointed his newfound wand at Harry, victorious smirk on his face. "AVADA KEDAVRA!" he yelled insanely, relishing his victory.

Few feet away, Harry froze in his track, 'deer in a headlight' expression etched on his face. He had just grabbed a wand he had been going for, but he knew it was already too late. Knowing there was nothing he could do, he squeezed his eyes shut, calmly accepting his fate. He watched his whole life flash before his eyes, as he waited for the familiar sound of approaching death to rush past him, taking his soul away.

But it never came.

Dead silence engulfed the dingy blocked-off alley, as two bruised, smelly man sat few feet away from each other, surrounded by piles of trash, staring dumbly at a piece of wood one of them was shakily holding. Slowly, Harry's brain started functioning again, gradually comprehending what had just happened. Judging by the shocked but fearful expression dawning on Rookwood's face, he was just coming up with the same conclusion.

Drumstick.

Rookwood was holding a wooden drumstick in his hand; probably a part of that discarded drum-set Harry had used as a projectile during the duel.

Both man looked at each other numbly for what seemed like an eternity. Then slowly, Harry averted his eyes and glanced at the stick he was desperately clutching in his own hand. His heart jumped when he realized it was his precious new wand. Sure, it was sticky and dirty and had pieces of rotten food smeared all over it, but to Harry, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.

Harry had just enough willpower left to lift his newly-recovered wand and fire a stunner point-blank at Rookwood's head, before collapsing back into piles of garbage and bursting out into a fit of hysterical laughter; Both from suffered stress of a near-death experience and blissful relief of another lucky victory under his belt.

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**Author notes  
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I would like to thank my beta, **Jolly Rancher** for fixing grammar and other errors in this chapters.

**EDIT: This chapter had been edited after the posting of chapter 8. Grammar was fixed a bit and a few parts rewritten, but the plot remained the same. **

**o - About snakes **

In many HP fan-fiction stories we see snakes frown, smile, look sad, sneer, laugh, scowl etc. None of this is possible though, seeing how snakes don't have the necessary facial muscles to form these expressions. Furthermore, they also tend to nod, shake head, or sometimes even shrug, which is even more impossible since they don't have a neck to separate their head from the body, not to mention shoulders.

In this story, I'll be "inserting" facial muscles around Dick's eyes, so he can "narrow his eyes" or "widen his eyes in surprise" or maybe even "frown". I know this is unrealistic but I'll need this for purposes of better characterization.

Also, snakes show two different levels of intelligence in canon. Boa constrictor in book 1 is very chatty and even uses some sort of Mexican/Californian slang when greeting Harry. However, that conjured snake and the Basilisk in book 2 are much more to my liking - only as smart as they need to be. Obviously, I'll be using that second theory in this story. Dick is the only exception from this rule, seeing how he'd been altered to act like a human.

And finally, I'm well aware that the part about Voldemort spreading the word about his targets using snake-acolytes is unrealistic, seeing how snakes don't interact with each other much outside the mating season (not to mention spend most of their time hidden in some hole or hibernating). Eh, just another thing you'll have to Oblivate yourself about. Hey, it's not my fault JKR had chosen snakes for the animal group Harry and Tom are able to interact with.

**o - About shield amulets **

I was always wondering why wouldn't Lord Voldemort just have one of his Slytherins curse Dumbledore in the back and be done with him. Or why couldn't someone just snipe Voldemort through the head during one of his meetings. Anti-assassination amulets are my answer to that problem. Sure, you can still kill a guy if you try hard enough - killing curse from the close range or extremely powerful explosion, but this at least this care of a part of the problem.

**o - About the Reducto curse **

Many stories use this curse as the main offensive spell for the "light" side. They practically turn magical skirmishes into classical gun fights, with DE's using Avada Kedavra-s and good guys using Reducto-s as their ammunition.

From the Rookwood's explanation in the story, you can guess what my opinion on this matter is. I'll just say this - Invent your own spells, people! Pig Latin isn't that hard to use!

**o - Sources and additional disclaimers **

Information about adders (Dick's species):

www-brantacan-org-uk/adders-htm

Some parts were inspired by one of the action scenes from the movie "Desperado".

The concept of remotely activated wands was used before in Draco664's story "Apprentice Potter" (draco664-fanficauthors-net).

The encyclopedias I've used for reference are Britannica 2005 and Wikipedia (www-wikipedia-org).

I don't own any intellectual property mentioned above.


	7. Visiting day, every day

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**Potter's Resistance 1: Breaking Ties **

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**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic, and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to Harry Potter.

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Chapter 7: Visiting day, every day  
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Harry awoke to the annoying ringing of his mechanical alarm clock. He slammed the thing off and threw a wishful look at Dick snoozing in a heated corner of the room. He blearily stumbled out of bed and dragged himself to a badly transfigured mirror. He stared darkly at his skewed reflection as he adjusted his eyesight and 'retracted' his one-day beard using his shape-shifter abilities. He was just about to take a shower, when he realized that his current accommodations did not include one. Grumbling about the unfairness of his life, he started casting cleaning and refreshing charms all over himself as he stumbled out of his makeshift room. He immediately sobered, however, when he realized where was he residing and why he was there in the first place.

Harry was standing in the vast central hall of his leased warehouse. All the old boxes and other miscellaneous junk had been dragged over by the walls, leaving a large clear space in the middle. In the centre of that clearing, draped across the floor was a half-completed arabesque of arcane symbols, runes and lines, drawn in three distinctive colours. On one edge of the clearing stood three cauldrons, filled with the 'paint' used to draw the image. On the opposite edge of the room was a huge but crude work-desk, filled with piles and piles of Arithmancy textbooks, rune charts, hand-made notes and sketches of arcane symbols. Aside it was a smaller table, with only a single volume of Morhad Arven's collection resting on top of it. The journal was currently opened to a page with what seemed like a completed version of the unfinished drawing from the floor.

Harry smiled ruefully at the mess. Even with the detailed description of the ritual in the book, the preparation procedure itself was far from simple. Many things had to be altered depending on various factors pertinent to the ritual, such as power of the participants, magical radiation in the air, premises in the potions, proportion between the sizes of _'tabela arcanum'_, ritual chamber and participants' bodies and many more. Then all these variables had to be recalculated in dependence to one-another and applied by making small, almost insignificant changes in the rune drawings and their arrangement. In the end, Harry was forced to take a preliminary introduction into Arithmancy as well as the Rune magic, once again cursing his foolishness for not choosing these subjects in his third year at Hogwarts. _Maybe reading tea cups would help me recalculate the exact orientation of 'Jera' rune contingent upon the subspecies of hellebore used in the 'Vita Fundimentum' solution,_ Harry remembered himself grumbling, while pouring through the Arithmancy and Rune tomes, trying to grasp up at least some basic knowledge of the subjects as quickly as possible.

Shaking himself from these musings and the last vestiges of sleep, Harry started with his standard morning routine, all the while grumbling under his breath. _Early morning workout, no shower afterwards and dry canned food for breakfast... How can life get any sweater?_

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An hour later, totally awoken and alert Harry Potter carefully approached a structure in the corner of the hall, tray with canned food carefully balanced in his hands. Dick was slithering behind him, quietly grumbling about him being too old for this. Not unlike Harry's own 'private quarters', the structure he was heading to was crudely put together from various transfigured pieces of garbage found in the warehouse. But while his hut was nothing more than a loosely enclosed living space, this object looked more like a rough concrete cuboid, with no windows and a single heavily barred door plastered on the front right side. Even a cursory glance at the thing left no doubts of its function. Plain and simple, it was a jail, constructed for the sole purpose of housing one particular prisoner - Augustus Rookwood.

Once he reached the robust door, barred by a steel latch, Harry carefully deposited the tray on the floor and pulled out his wand. »Cover my back, will you?« he hissed to the snake curled around the tray, receiving only a drowsy blink in return.

Shaking his head, he threw a quick glare at a blue Phoenix perched on the roof of the structure. After his almost fatal duel with Rookwood, where his stalker simply refused to step in and help him out, Harry decided to give the traitorous bird a wide berth, determined not to fall into the same trap of trusting him again. To Harry's relief, the phoenix seemed to have sensed his change of mood and was keeping greater distance than usual, going even as far as to stay out of the cell during Harry's daily visits to his prisoner.

Putting the mysterious observer out of his mind for the time being, Harry carefully removed the latch and quickly stepped back, remembering very well the last time he had just stood there waiting. Rookwood had immediately kicked the door open, smacking Harry straight in the noise and knocking him down. Only a quick stunner from the floor had stopped Rookwood from escaping that time and prematurely ending Harry's jailer career.

Seeing no evidence of action from the other side, Harry carefully pulled the door open and again stepped back, shielding spell lingering on his lips. Memories of Rookwood's surprise attacks at the sign of the door being opened were still fresh in Harry's mind, especially the fact that the contents of the man's waste bucket were frequently used tools during these endeavours.

_Well, at least it motivated me to bring up my physical shields and banishing charms up to scratch_, Harry reasoned, grimacing slightly at the unpleasant memories. There was only so much that magic could remove. Memories and lingering smell of human feces were unfortunately not it.

Encouraged by the lack of response, Harry carefully stepped forward, keeping the whole doorway at wand-point. With some trepidation, he noted that the wastebasket was standing untouched in the far right corner of the room. Harry peaked in further and saw a lumpy sleeping bag in the far left corner. He examined it further and noticed that the 'person' in it was completely covered with blankets, rolled in like a cocoon.

_So, another one of those cheap 'sleeping man' distractions_, Harry mused, figuring that Rookwood was probably lying in wait in the near left corner of the room. Bracing himself and pumping up his magic, Harry quickly stepped in and whipped his wand to the left, stunner ready on his lips. At the same moment, a sickly-looking figure with greasy dark hair leaped from the sleeping bag, hurling a piece of feces in his direction and screaming like a banshee. Distant part of Harry's brain recognized the gaunt form of his wayward prisoner.

Only days ago, Harry would have probably panicked, stumbled with a stunner and ended up with Rookwood literally beating the shit out of him. However, after more than a week of acting as Rookwood's prison warden, he was well versed in dealing with his captive's insane escape attempts. He took one calm step back and made a circular wand motion, while forcefully incanting "_Expello spherae!_"

Harry's wand bucked as it released huge amount of accumulated magic into a giant, almost invisible blob, which was then hurled straight towards the leaping Rookwood and the flying by-products of his bodily functions. Next moment, both Rookwood and his projectile found themselves forcefully hurled backwards and pinned against the far wall, before crumbling in a heap on the floor. Rookwood had just enough time to form a sneer at the approaching stunner, before collapsing in a dead faint, his head splashing straight into his own shit on the floor.

_Hmm, a reversed 'sleeping man' feint. Interesting_, mused Harry, as he took mercy on his prisoner and vanished the feces back into the bucket.

»You know, you should really give the guy a lesson about basic hygiene, this is getting really disgusting,« snapped Dick from the door, glaring at the mess in the cell.

Harry shrugged noncommittally and started preparing the room for another gruelling learning session with his prisoner. »As long as he stays true to his end of the bargain, he can bathe in his own piss for all I care,« he said, as he retrieved a pair of bracelets from his robes. The first one, so called _'jellobind'_ bracelet, he fastened around Rookwood's right knuckle, while the _'leeching armlet'_ went on his left.

Harry intoned a basic activation spell and tapped the jellobind, powering it up. The bronze piece of jewellery let go a wave of shining magic that enveloped Rookwood's entire body, before subduing to a barely noticeable hum. Harry nodded to himself, satisfied that the permanent _Impedimenta_ curse was in place, before redirecting his attention to his prisoner's other arm. He once again poured a fair amount of power into the activation spell and then spilled it all into the leeching armlet. The silver halo briefly flashed with power, before all the magic suddenly disappeared with a faint sucking noise. Harry touched the bracelet and felt a soft tug on his magic, as if there was a low-pressure zone on the other side that desperately needed to be filled. Harry knew very well that any raw magic he tried to push while touching the lecher would keep getting sucked in, until the power trapped within the object reached equilibrium with its initial charge.

Done with that, Harry carefully frisked Rookwood and then searched the rest of the room, looking for anything that might be used as a weapon. He was not about to take any chances with his wand dangling so close to a dangerous Death Eater. After conjuring a mat for Dick and placing a heating charms on it - a concession his snake had requested before accepting to act as his backup - the room was finally ready for the session.

"Enervate," Harry cast at the unconscious man and took a few steps back.

Rookwood groaned and blearily pulled himself up to a sitting position, his moves slowed to a crawl thanks to the bronze bracelet. He moved to rub the sleep out of his eyes, but flinched back when the smell from his hands reminded him just what they were holding only minutes ago. Not that it mattered a great deal - his face wasn't in much better condition either.

"If it's not too much of an inconvenience for you Potter, would you mind terribly cleaning me up a bit?" he drawled sarcastically, trying to stay calm considering his current situation.

"Are you sure? You know, if you smear it little to the left, it'd look even better than a death eater mask," Harry smiled.

"Ha, ha, ha. Very funny," Rookwood drawled unenthusiastically, rolling his eyes. "Now, if you're all done with your little immature toilet humour stand up comedy act, would you, for the love of Merlin, fucking clean me up already!" he ended up shouting, his forced calm forgotten in the nauseous feeling coming from his own stench.

"Alright, alright, calm down. It was just a little joke, you know, no need to get all shitfaced about it," Harry quipped, giving the man a cheeky smile. Rookwood tried to glare back, but the feces smeared over his face pretty much ruined the effect. Biting back another retort, Harry finally pulled out his wand and started working on the irate man.

"I hope you understand that this situation is entirely your own fault," he said absentmindedly, while casting every cleaning, banishing and air-filtering spell he could think of. Fitwick's lessons were at least good for something. "If you'd just behave, like any normal well-mannered prisoner should, I wouldn't have to patch you up each morning... Hmm... I'm almost tempted to put you under a nice sleep spell one of these nights... give you a little break, you know," he commented offhandedly while casting one final air freshening charm.

"And I hope you remember the particulars of our deal - as long as you are not restraining me in any way during the time you're not in here, _including_ the sleep inducing magic and narcotics, I'll keep giving you pointers with whatever pathetic kindergarten-level magic you try to learn," Rookwood snapped back, not giving in to Harry's 'gentle' suggestion.

"Augustus, I'm hurt," Harry said mockingly, hand over his heart. "I was only trying to be a good host by taking care of my esteemed guest's wellbeing."

"And I am just trying to be a good _guest_, by making sure my esteemed benefactor doesn't strain himself too much in his overwhelming concern for my comfort," Rookwood shot back.

Both men, however, kept their tone light, taking their 'argument' for nothing more than an absentminded banter, which in fact it was. After all, their flimsy truce was useful for both sides of the bargain. Harry had gotten the unique chance to receive help and advices from a real-live Unspeakable, within the boundaries set by various magical contracts the man had signed, of course. Rookwood, on the other hand, had gotten an unspoken permission to make his daily escape attempts without fear of retribution, proving once again that hope can be a very valuable bargaining chip in the hands of a capable negotiator.

Finally bringing himself up to a sitting position by the wall, Rookwood tried to stretch his shoulders, only to wince painfully and move to rub them on the spot when he hit the wall. "Damn it, Potter, that's some punch you have there. _Expello spherae_?"

Harry summoned a cushion from the warehouse and sat down in front of his irate prisoner, before nodding in affirmative. "Charged to the brim."

Rookwood shook his head and whistled lowly. "And overcharged two times over, judging by that shockwave I've felt. That spell hardly had any structure at all."

"Well, it's not like it matters for a simple banishing hex," Harry shrugged an excuse.

"That's not the point, Potter, and you know it," countered Rookwood somewhat irritably. "If you'd used anything more complicated than a simple banisher, the power would have completely broken through the spell's matrix; Instead of a nice, structured effect, you'd end up producing a harmless fart of raw magic."

Harry looking pointedly at Rookwood's bruised shoulder. "Not so harmless, it seems to me," he commented dryly.

Rookwood scoffed. "Yes, let's throw magic around like confetti and look all mighty and powerful." He rolled his eyes, shaking his head in disappointment. "Typical novice philosophy. Yes, your wave of raw magic had some minor physical effect, but deterioration of the banishing spell's structure more than made up for it. In the end, your attack had approximately the same punch, only with thrice as much invested magic than necessary. Besides, what if you needed a summoning charm instead, huh? In that case, every percent of spilled over energy would have worked twice as hard against your effort."

"Perhaps. Nevertheless, the fact remains that in this particular case, I needed anything _but_ the summoning charm. It's not like I wanted you _near_ me, is it?" Harry gave Rookwood a patronizing look and spoke softly. "Augustus, I can see how you'd rather snog a hunk like me than your own shit... and I'm flattered, really I am... but I-"

"But what? Already involved with your own hand?" retorted Rookwood, taking up the challenge.

"Why yes, we're quite attached," Harry quipped back, before growing serious. "Besides, it's not like I have a choice. It's your stinking master's fault I can't get a steady girlfriend."

"Oh yes, I can see how the Dark Lord's top priority would be standing guard on the astronomy tower after dark, trying to ruin your style, Casanova," Rookwood drawled sarcastically.

"Don't give me that Slytherin sarcastic bullshit, you know what I mean. He's the reason I have to spend all my time in this stinking place, working my arse off, instead of enjoying the finer things in life," Harry almost whined.

"Oh, so it's _his_ fault you're trying to make something out of your life? You'd rather turn into another worthless playboy living off the Potter trust fund?"

There was no need to add, _"like your father used to"_; Judging by a scowl briefly flashing over Harry's face, he understood the jibe perfectly. "No, it's just that... I'd for once like to learn something because I _like _it, not because I need it to survive. It's not that I abhor studying - especially now when I'm making such a good progress - it's the constant pressure that's bothering me."

Rookwood gave him a calculative look, their brief bout of teasing forgotten. "Well, there's one very easy way out of this. Join us."

Harry gave him a blank look. "What, you have a study group or something?"

"No, you idiot, join _him_, the Dark Lord." Seeing Harry's incredulous look, Rookwood hurried on. "Potter, just hear me out, alright? I don't know what lies you've been fed about my lord, but trust me, he's not some evil madman who bathes in children's blood and enjoys killing random people for the sheer fun of it. On the contrary, the Dark Lord is a very precise and rational person. His every action, even those that may seem harsh to you now, is carefully conceived, planned and executed, for the sole purpose of leading our world one step closer to this... this _beautiful_ vision of future all of us working under him share."

Rookwood gave Harry an eager, almost fanatical look. "Pot... _Harry_, one of these days, you should really have a talk, a _real_ talk with my master about the kind of world he's trying to create... not that propaganda bullshit the public is being fed with, but the _real_ thing. Once you see what a great wizard he truly is, and hear his revolutionary ideas for revitalization of our kind and revival of the old ways and lore, I bet you'd change your tune in a heartbeat."

He sighed in remembrance, his eyes taking on a faraway look. "Just to hear his ultimate conviction, while honouring you with a mere glimpse of his grand vision... to feel this... this relentless determination pouring out of his every word... You realize that nothing... _nothing_ could ever stop him from reaching this goal... this _dream_... and, if you're honest with yourself and you truly care for the future of our world, you realize that nothing should."

The Death Eater seemed lost in his thoughts for a few moments, before shaking himself out of it. "Look Harry, I'm not trying to sell you his ideology here. I'm just trying to relay how rational and _driven_ person the Dark Lord truly is. It would simply be against the nature of such a brilliant strategist to pursue his personal matters and vendettas at the cost of his larger objectives. As long as you are not a threat to him, he _will not_ go out of his way to harm you. Unlike what your minders had led you to believe so you would foolishly oppose him, the Dark Lord _can_ be reasoned with."

Rookwood gave Harry what amounted to a sincere look. "Harry, what I'm saying is this. I'm willing to let bygones be bygones and negotiate with the Dark Lord on your behalf. I can see the raw potential inside you and I'm positive I could make my master see it too. As I said, he's not known to needlessly throw away resources that could significantly help his own cause. I'm positive that, once you prove your loyalty, he'll be more than happy to end this foolish feud and welcome you into the flock with open arms. Then I could officially take you under my wing as my apprentice and start showing you some _real_ magic, instead of these parlour tricks Hogwarts has filled your brain with. Harry, just think of all the knowledge I'd be able to share with you as my formal apprentice; Of all the things we could accomplish together with our lord. You might not even have to go on raids that often, since you'll be on the research and development team with me." Rookwood finished, smiling gently at Harry. "So, what do you say, Harry? Certainly better than letting yourself become a pawn of the so-called _light_ and foolishly wasting your life on trying to save a bunch of brainwashed ingrates. Just remove these binds and let me send an owl to a secure drop-box, requesting a summoning. You'll see, Harry, I'll get you out of this mess within a day."

Harry, who'd been keeping a blank expression throughout Rookwood's speech, faked a happy smile. "Aww, that's so sweet of you. Can I call you Uncle Augustus?"

Rookwood's hopeful smile became a bit strained. "Come on now Harry, this is not a joking matter... Why don't I give you some time to consider-"

However, Harry's face lost all traces of happiness in a blink. "So who do you think it'd be?"

"Excuse me?"

"I've heard a thing or two about Death Eater initiations. You said it yourself, the Dark Lord would never take in the famous Boy-Who-Lived, without making sure I've truly turned my back to the 'light' side. So, who do you think I'd have to kill for my initiation?"

Rookwood looked vaguely uncomfortable. "Well, as you so cleverly pointed out, there is a purpose to these harsh requirements. Giving up on some cherished aspect of their life is a proof of the initiate's devotion to the cause, and it also cements their loyalty to-"

"No, what I meant was, who do _you_ think it would be? Hermione Granger, the filthy mudblood bitch, or maybe one of the blood traitor Weasleys?"

Rookwood seemed stumped for a moment, before responding in a mildly annoyed voice. "Well if you join the Dark Lord, you can hardly expect-"

"Or would it be some innocent muggle, completely clueless to what's going on?"

"Potter..."

"How about a muggleborn baby? You know, take out the competition before they learn how to defend themselves. Or why not topple a bridge, or blow up an airplane instead? It's better to take several hundred muggles than a single baby. I'm wondering, do you have some sort of a scale for that; Or perhaps a special section in the 'evil henchman guidebook'-"

"Oh, drop the fucking sanctimonious crap, Potter! You know what's at stake here, what are we trying to achieve. The wizarding world has become decadent and will eventually collapse upon itself, if something isn't done about it. I _know_ you agree with me Potter, don't deny it. Do you honestly believe we can make the necessary changes with just smart arguments and petitions to people like Fudge or Dumbledore? There are _significant_ forces opposing us Potter; Deep-rooted fears and prejudices that will fight to their last breath against the changes that are so desperately needed. Are you so naïve to think that these forces would suddenly see the folly of their ways and step away quietly? Look into history Potter, and find me a single example of a non-violent revolution that had achieved long-lasting results. Let me tell you straight out that you won't find any. Successful revolution has to be lubricated by the blood of its children and those opposing it, the history has taught us that much."

Rookwood took a deep breath and exhaled in frustration, as if Harry was failing to see some painfully obvious truth that was dangling before his face. He spoke on with an almost pleading quality in his voice. "Don't you _see_ that, in order to truly revive our world, we _must_ cut out the weed that has infested it and is slowly dragging it down? We cannot _reason_ with the weed; We cannot _negotiate_ and let it live in peace, only to thrive again once we turn our backs to it and let our guards down! _No_, we must pulverize it! Completely obliterate it to the extent that it'll never be able to recover, never again be allowed to pollute our kind, halting our evolution towards the enlightenment that our blood has promised us!"

Rookwood paused, panting slightly, and then finished his speech in a quiet, but determined tone of voice. "And if a few flowers get cut during the weeding... _so be it_. It's a small price to pay for our future." He gave Harry challenging look, as if daring him to say anything contrary to his statement.

Harry hid his amusement at how easy it was to get the man into one of his passionate rants and nodded seriously in response. His initial goal was to divert the conversation towards Voldemort and try to get a feel of his prisoner's real opinions about the Dark Lord and his ideals. He never expected from Rookwood to go out and outright offer to initiate him into the cult. Harry concluded that ordinary Death Eaters obviously still had no clue of the true meaning of the Prophecy.

"Oh, I agree with you completely, Rookwood," Harry responded earnestly. "After all, as the muggle saying goes, _you can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs_. I'm well aware that nothing will ever change without taking some drastic actions against those in power who oppose the progress with their conformism and corruption."

"You agree?" August asked perplexedly, before his face split into a grin. "Well, then it's all settled then. If you'd just remove these bracelets and let me write the letter to the Dark Lord-"

"No, I think you misunderstood me, Rookwood," Harry interrupted him. "You see, while I do agree almost completely with your general views and partially with the suggested methods, I can't in all honesty condone your choice of a leader."

"Ahh, I see. So it's personal then. Big bad Dark Lord hurt your mummy and daddy, so you wanna hurt him back," Rookwood sneered mockingly. "I expected more mature attitude from you, Potter. Yes, it must have been rough growing up without parents, but you should understand that they've willingly applied themselves to fight against the Dark Lord, making themselves perfectly legit targets. Besides, you were hardly the sole injured party there. How many Death Eaters ended up in Azkaban thanks to you? The Dark Lord had almost been killed, for Merlin's sake, while you came out none the worse and became a celebrity to boot! _He_ should be the one holding the grudge, not you!"

Harry stared at him for a few moments, before shrugging in silent acceptance. "While I do admit that there's _some_ resentment left from the fact that your master had destroyed my childhood, that's not my sole reason for rejecting your offer," he said, managing to keep bitterness out of his voice. "The thing is I simply don't believe that Riddle is the kind of man who would seek to bring betterment to anyone but himself. Unlike you Rookwood, he is not trying to make the world a better place. He is trying to make it _his own_ place. That's what the title _'Dark Lord'_ is all about, if you missed that particular history lesson in school."

Rookwood sneered in return. "I, unlike you Potter, know my history perfectly well, _including_ the part about derogatory names freedom fighters are _always_ getting labelled with by corrupt governments. I certainly don't need lessons from some snot-nosed brainwashed _brat_, who's only parroting the biased slogans his minders had-"

"Oh, would you _shut_ the _fuck_ up!" Harry snapped, cutting another one of Rookwood's tirades in the bud. "If you'd just cease your _fucking yapping_ for a moment and hear yourself, you'd realize how _utterly fucking delusional_ your arguments sound. What, am I supposed to believe that a god damn _dark lord_ who looks like a mummified dinosaur and gets a boner from people fearing his made up super-villain name, is actually a cuddly misunderstood freedom-loving philanthropist under his rough mask? What are you, his fucking fan-girl? Jesus Christ, I thought you were gonna cum during that ode to the fucker's supposed brilliance and strategic genius."

All traces of friendly demeanour disappeared from Rookwood's face, as the Death Eater seethed with rage. "Don't presume to speak of the things you know nothing about, _boy_. After more than twenty years of service under the Dark Lord, I certainly don't need some wet behind the ears schoolboy, with an over-inflated ego and little to no actual life experience to lecture me what my lord is like."

Harry rolled his eyes and drawled sarcastically. "Yes of course, being one of the tiny, insignificant screws in the Lord Anagram's evil organization certainly gives you a better insight into the madman's mindframe, than his mentally-linked arch-nemesis could ever hope to have."

"Insignificant!?" Rookwood sputtered in outrage. "I happen to be the Dark Lord's most trusted advisor!" At this, Harry burst out into a fit of laughter. "Well I am! I've been working with him personally! He confided in me! Told me the aspects of his plan that those high and mighty royal purebloods would never dream of! I'll have you know... Stop laughing!"

And indeed, with each exclamation, Harry was laughing harder and harder, almost choking near the end. "Augustus, you crack me up," he finally stuttered, trying to get himself under some semblance of control.

Rookwood might have picked up mannerisms and pattern of speech from his Slytherin colleagues, but underneath that mask laid just a naïve Ravenclaw nerd, with his head stuck up in the clouds. He found it especially funny that a man, who presumed himself capable of reforming a whole society, could be so blind to the finer intricacies of simple human interactions and manipulations.

"Are you even aware of how many Death Eaters tend to make ridiculous claims like that? Has it never occurred to you that they too might have received similar 'soul-baring' speeches from Voldemort, only customized to their own expectations?" Harry asked, fully expecting to be interrupted by denials or insults. To his surprise, Rookwood just kept glaring, a furious whirlwind of emotions playing in his eyes. Harry decided to press on.

"Let's see, first there's Lucius Malfoy, whose head must be full of _promises_ on how the complete segregation from the muggle world and restoration of pureblood privileges will happen just days after the final victory. Then, there's the infamous Lestrange family, who are probably having collective wet dreams about all the bloodshed they'll partake in once their master breaks the Statute of Secrecy and declares an all out war against muggles. Next, we have Fenrir Greyback, a filthy half-bred working happily with some of the worst blood-purists in the world. But wait, his master must have _confided_ in him too, explaining how he doesn't _really_ share the pureblood radicals' views, but is in fact only using them to achieve total equality for all magical creatures and races. Who's left, let's see... Ah yes, Barty Crouch Junior, a poor sod who decided that the Dark Lord makes much better parent than a day-care centre could ever be. I can just imagine how crushed Voldemort must have felt when his self-titled _surrogate son_ ended his career on a date with a dementor. It must have taken him a whole week to find a replacement."

Harry let go a nasty chuckle and then gave Rookwood a penetrating look. "And then, of course, there's you. A fifty-year-old idealistic fool on a holy quest to change the world. I bet you were the easiest one to woo. Riddle only had to listen to one of your little rants and nod at all the right places, before branding you as his property and sending you in line with all the other idiots he'd duped that afternoon. Just another obedient little pawn, ready to waste his insignificant little life on helping his owner one step further towards the absolute power and-"

"I know!" snapped Rookwood suddenly, making Harry jerk back in surprise. In the ensuing silence, the Death Eater was panting harshly, absolutely fuming with rage and frustration. A few times he opened his mouth, as if trying to voice something - an objection, rebuttal, denial. Then, as suddenly as it came, his fight left him. He deflated and said in a defeated tone of voice. "_I know_, Potter. I know."

He then leaned in and started hissing conspiratorially, as if afraid that someone might overhear him. "Do you honestly believe there weren't days when I second-guessed my choices, bereted myself for making so many sacrifices for the cause and receiving so little in return? Do you think I've never had... _moments of weakness_... _misgivings_ about my Lord's plans and motivation? I'm neither blind nor foolish, Potter. I can see how the master plays us all, fuelling our desires and ambitions, and then urging us to fulfil them by following his command. I see the other Death Eaters enter his chamber solemnly and exit carrying a devoted look on their faces, the same look I see myself carrying at times." He sighed and shook his head dejectedly. "It's just that... I'm aware that some things are amiss, but..."

"Sometimes it's easier to just give in and go along with the flow," Harry nodded understandingly. He realized that he had misjudged Rookwood earlier on. He thought him blind to Voldemort's manipulations, while he was actually consciously deluding himself, letting his idealism and optimism get better of himself and cloud his logical reasoning. "It's easier to close your eyes and blindly trudge forward, hoping for the best, than admit that you were wrong and-"

"And what?" Rookwood challenged. "What would you have me do? Hide away from the world and hope that neither side would find me? Piss over all the sacrifices I've made so far for the cause and give up the one purpose I have left in my life? Decide that everything I've achieved during the last 20 years was for nothing and revert to being just another mindless drone, obliviously wasting his life away in a crumbling society, drowning in its own corruption and decadence?" With each word, Rookwood was looking more and more sure of himself, his temporary pessimism slowly giving way to his usual passion. "No one is perfect, Potter, the Dark Lord included. He may not be all he claims to be, but he is still the best goddamn chance we have to shake away some of the sludge that's holding our society down! So what if he achieves his own ambitions in the process? Anything is better than the way things are now!"

Rookwood took a breath and forced himself not to get into another long-winded speech. "When all is said and done Potter, our world simply can't afford to wait any longer for the reforms it desperately needs. The Dark Lord may not be the perfect man for the job, but he's still the only one available with both the willingness to oppose the current system and enough power to do it."

Harry looked thoughtful for a moment, before deciding to take a plunge. "What about me?"

"_You!?_" Rookwood snorted incredulously. "Don't get me wrong kid, you have lots of potential... even though you're not exactly the fastest snitch on the field-"

"There's only one snitch on the field, dumbarse."

"Alright, you're dense, happy now?" Rookwood huffed. "My point is, all your power won't do you any good in the end. You'll simply need years and years of training to reach your full potential, the time you definitely won't have before you're caught and brought before the Dark Lord. And let me assure you Potter, that _will_ happen eventually, no matter how hard you train and what deceptions you pull. The Dark Lord _always_ gets it his way in the end."

Seeing Harry's mock-bored look, Rookwood sighed in frustration. "Potter, I don't think you fully appreciate the seriousness of your situation, so let me spell it out for you. You are the current number one target on the Dark Lord's hit list. Throughout the first war, that position had been occupied by many wizards, almost all of whom were much more skilled and experienced than you are. Top aurors, duelling masters, rich purebloods, protected politicians... even your own parents, who were a force to be reckoned with in their own right. _None_ of them lasted more than a year. _Not one_."

He made a small dramatic pause, letting the point sink in, before pressing on. "The Dark Lord's network of spies and affiliates is almost completely regenerated now. Very soon, he'll direct his complete attention to hunting you down and removing you from the equation. I urge you once again to reconsider my offer. Let me approach the Dark Lord in your stead and plead with him to spare your life in return for your allegiance. It may not seem that way now, but I assure you, that's your best and probably the _only_ chance to come out of this war alive."

Harry looked thoughtful for a moment, before exhaling in frustration and giving Rookwood a sincere look. "Well, I appreciate your offer Augustus, really I do. Alas, I simply don't dare change my mind now, after already meeting the devil in person and making my choice known."

Rookwood seemed very eager to mollify Harry's fears. "Harry, if you're talking of my Lord's earlier propositions, than-"

"What? No, no. I meant my career advice interview with McGonagall, when I've chosen the career of an _'auror'_ over an _'evil madman's cohort'_, thanks to a better dental plan. I'm afraid that changing my mind now would simply break the old bird's heart, especially after all the help- "

"Oh do shut up Potter," Rookwood drawled in a tired and slightly disappointed tone of voice. "What the fuck is wrong with you, boy? Why can't you take this seriously? Don't you care whether you live or die? Sweet Merlin, for all you know, the Dark Lord might be on his way here right now, following the link to my dark mark!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Don't take me for a fool Rookwood. I sincerely doubt that the dark mark is capable of working as anything but a receptor. Voldemort is just too damn paranoid to allow existence of a backdoor through which any average schmuck could send him potentially harmful magic from anywhere in the world. And if the mark is technically unable to send magic towards Voldemort, it's a small leap of logic that it can't send its location either."

Rookwood scoffed for a moment, before shrugging in a grudging acceptance. "Well, at least you're not as dim-witted as you look." He then sneered and went on bitingly. "Of course, all the people who went through my master's shit-list thought themselves rather clever too, but that didn't save them in the end. So, you just keep fooling yourself with your little games and observations. That won't stop the Dark Lord from locating you sooner or later and bringing you down, with or without the dark mark locator."

Harry shrugged carelessly, knowing that his callous dismissal of Voldemort's skills would rile Rookwood up more than any direct insult possibly could. "Well, it's not like the big V is having a good running time so far. Even Dumbledore is closer to catching me than him... which doesn't say much, mind you, seeing how the old fart is still chasing his own arse on the other side of the globe."

Rookwood glared at him for a moment, before surprisingly letting go a slight chuckle. "Well, I can hardly argue with that, I guess."

Harry smirked a bit too, satisfied with Rookwood's veiled praise, before growing serious again, deeming this a good time to make a point. "A word of advice, Rookwood. Don't ever underestimate me. That's been the undoing of many capable wizards, including your esteemed master, Dumbledore and now your own."

Rookwood huffed indignantly. "Hey now, that was just a lucky shot and you know it! I had you dancing there like a baboon and could have taken you out anytime I wanted."

"But you haven't, which is exactly my point. You underestimated me and it cost you, just like it cost your stupid arse master on a number of occasions," Harry pointed out and then smirked viciously, his eyes suddenly taking a calculating look. "So, you might have had an upper hand and greater duelling skill, but at the end of the day, the only thing that matters is that you're sitting over there, restrained and smeared in your own shit, while I'm sitting over here, holding you at wand point and getting ready to use you as a lab rat for my personal amusement."

During Harry's mocking speech, Rookwood's slightly annoyed slowly transformed into an angry scowl. "You know what? Fuck you, Potter! This conversation is over and can be continued once my lord catches you and lets me have a few moments alone with you, before your execution. Now, since you seem so eager to _experiment_, why don't you take out your pathetic little wand and shove it up your-"

"_Oblivate!_"

Harry immediately immersed himself in Rookwood's mind and relaxed, letting himself feel emotional texture of the target's memories. As expected, his most recent feelings were extreme annoyance and anger, showing that his effort to rile the man up for experimental purposes was successful. Harry studied the pattern for a few seconds, making careful observations about the way emotions intersected themselves with sensual data, before getting on with his work. He carefully marked the beginning of a 'bubble' and started stretching it backwards through Rookwood's recollections of the conversation they've just had. He slowly drifted through various emotional and sensual patterns, until reaching the desired timeframe. He was just about to finish the job routinely, when he had a sudden urge to try something new for a change. Instead of fear or embarrassment, which he would normally use, Harry concentrated on strong feelings of happiness, as he would when casting Patronus. All the gathered happy emotions he pushed forwards, funnelling them towards the bubble, while gently bringing the two ends together and sewing them shut. The bubble bounced slightly, as a beach ball in water, before slowly drifting away towards the 'happy' section of Rookwood's brain, guided by its own happy aura that surrounded it.

Harry let the spell go and stored his wand away, curiously observing the results. He waited for Rookwood to regain some of his faculties, before chirping out cheerfully "Are you ok, Rookwood? You blacked out there for a moment. What, your own stench got the better of you?"

Rookwood made a grimace, sniffing disgustingly. "If it's not too big of a task for your puny Gryffindork brain, would you lift your fucking arse off the ground and start throwing some fucking cleaning charms around!" he snapped, annoyance seeping from his words.

"Are you sure? You know, if you smear it little to the left, it'd look even better than a death eater mask," Harry parroted his earlier jibe absentmindedly, while curiously observing Rookwood's facial expressions and reactions.

"Stop with the fucking comedy act Potter and wipe this fucking shit off my fucking face, or..." Rookwood suddenly stopped and for the first time really looked at his surroundings. He inspected his hands, showing only a slight surprise at seeing them clean. He then carefully felt up his feces-free face, before exhaling in annoyance. "We've already started the session, haven't we?"

Only then did Harry end his inspection of Rookwood's behaviour and nodded, while stating his observations in a thoughtful tone of voice. "So that's what _pattern aggregation_ means. _When the latest un-Oblivated memory is activated, its recorded emotional stratum seeps into the current mindset, causing a temporary emotional instability while the two patterns merge._ An interesting phenomenon."

"Correct textbook definition. And let me assure you, it's much more fascinating from your end of the wand," Rookwood grumbled as he made himself comfortable, getting ready to inspect his captor's work.

"Wait, wait!" Harry stopped him and activated the stopwatch function on his newly acquired wristwatch. "Ok, go on."

Rookwood closed his eyes and completely relaxed himself in a meditative position. Only small twitches of his eyes indicated that he was browsing through some emotionally charged memories. While he was busy, Harry abbreviated his boredom by trying to orchestrate a dance act with several summoned spiders he had placed under Imperio.

"What the hell did you do, Potter?" Rookwood hissed in frustration, after being unable to find the bubble for ten straight minutes, which was Harry's new time record.

"Nothing at all," Harry chirped unconvincingly. "Just keep looking."

After two more minutes, the twitching of Rookwood's eyes suddenly changed pattern, indicating that the man has taken on a different approach. Four minutes later, he finally opened his eyes, ending the search.

"Sixteen minutes and 32 seconds," Harry exclaimed happily, sounding mightily pleased with himself.

"Do shut up Potter and explain yourself," Rookwood drawled back tiredly.

"Well, I wanted to do something new, so I figured I could try with using happy associations to infuse the bubble, instead of disturbing ones, you know. And it worked too, it seems, seeing how it took you twice longer than usual to locate the block!"

Rookwood's eyes suddenly lit up with wonderment. "Sweet Merlin, Potter! Do you realize you've just discovered a whole new method of Oblivation cloaking?"

"I did?" Harry asked eagerly.

"Yes, yes! It's amazing, really. Dozens of brilliant scholars had spent their entire lives researching various Oblivation techniques, and here you are, having a spur of the moment decision and coming up with a breakthrough! Remarkable Potter, absolutely remarkable! I'm in complete awe of your astonishing creativity and insight!" Rookwood gushed mockingly, making a grotesque impression of a child on Christmas morning.

"Err... It's not really a breakthrough, is it?" Harry asked, his happy smile turning into a strained one.

"Of course not, you dimwit! What, you think you're the first person ever to try that?" snapped Rookwood, his mocking happiness gone in a blink of eye. He then sighed and spoke on in a calmer voice. "You know Potter, back when I was still working for the D.O.M, I've had to deal with a fair share of trainees that department heads used to send us to show them a thing or two. And every once in a while, I'd came across a kid like you - a bright youngster, usually a mudblood, who'd get it in their head that everything in the wizarding world is completely backwards and stupid and that wizards who wrote the textbooks were all small-minded bigoted idiots not worthy of their attention. They'd have this annoying tendency to think they could figure out completely new ways of doing things, mostly by doing something as simple as applying some ridiculous muggle concept they've seen on that TV thing of theirs. It'd always take them several failed experiments to realize that there's generally a damn good reason why all other wizards in the world decided to handle things one way, and not the other. Now I'm not saying that progress isn't possible, only that, in order to make a real breakthrough, it usually takes much more effort than switching one little parameter and hoping for a miracle. Lucky breaks like that happen once in a lifetime, if ever."

"Or, in the abbreviated, non-preaching version, scholars have already experimented with hiding memory blocks inside the 'happy' sections and found the approach lacking," Harry said calmly, making Rookwood frown at the fact that the full extent of his wisdom wasn't being properly appreciated. "But my question is, why? I mean, the method can't be _that_ bad if I've just doubled my record time by applying it, right?"

"Wrong," Rookwood answered. "Potter, the whole point of cloaking techniques is to hide memory blocks from accidental detection and prevent the subject from ever realizing they've been Oblivated. Once they realize there's a block in their memory, finding it is just a matter of time and skill. Whether it takes them 5 minutes or 5 days, it makes little to no difference to you. As for why not the 'happy' sections... Well, it's a proven fact that people have much clearer recollections of events associated with strong emotions - both positive and negative - than of everyday occurrences. You know that, right?"

Seeing Harry's nod, he went on. "The clarity of these memories makes any distortion, like the ones caused by memory blocks, relatively easy to spot, especially for a well-organized mindscape. That's why, when hiding a bubble in one of these highly-emotional zones, you better make damn sure to associate it with the vilest, most terrifying memories you can find, the kind of which your subject wouldn't _want_ to recall or spot too many details of. You definitely _don't_ place it amongst happy and pleasant memories, which the subject would want to savour over and over again, thus increasing their chance of spotting the distortion."

"I see," Harry nodded. "Still, theoretically speaking, _if_ I were to Oblivate someone not well versed in spotting memory blocks, wouldn't doing something this random deter a potential mind mage from locating the block during a superficial search?"

Rookwood shrugged. "Theoretically speaking? Well, I guess it could work, but your subject would then have to be a complete dunce not to notice-"

"Or a muggle," Harry noted.

"Or a muggle," Rookwood confirmed thoughtfully. Seeing Harry's vaguely smug look, he suddenly scowled and snapped. "Oh get over yourself, Potter. You're like a toddler who just discovered that a cylinder can be stuffed through a square hole if you push hard enough. Here's a hint - no one gives a shit. All Obliviators worth their salt are long past these beginner steps, having progressed to much more serious methods, the best of them even to-"

"The neutral zones," Harry finished with a sigh.

Rookwood nodded. "Indeed. I see you've managed to locate some reading material about this method. You know the gist of it, yes?"

Harry nodded in confirmation. Associating memory blocks with strong feelings is like mislabelling files in a huge database. It might take some time and concentration, but if the clerks know what they're doing, sooner or later they'll find the inconsistency. Making neutrally-tempered bubbles, on the other hand, is like hiding a grain of sand in a desert. It takes an extremely experienced wizard to find the distortion in the sea of mundane, every day memories, lacking any emotional texture to distinguish them from each other. Of course, sending memory bubbles towards these neutral zones, without any feeling to use as guidance, is extremely difficult. In the end, it's what distinguishes an expert mind mage from just any average Joe who can cast the spell.

"I know the gist alright, it's the practical aspects I'm having difficulties with," Harry complained. "How am I supposed to infuse bubbles with nothing, no emotion at all? It seems impossible to me."

Rookwood smirked. "Ahh, so you see the problem. That's why you have your expert Oblivators, who manage to master these advanced techniques before going all gung-ho on poor commoners' minds, and then you have your ordinary Hogwarts alumni shmocks, who make a mess out of their amateur attempts and sooner or later get caught red-handed." Harry shifted nervously, imagining what would Rookwood think of his first Oblivation job. The clumsy block he'd left in that old pauper's head back in Australia might as well have a beacon saying _"I'm here! Remove me!"_

Seeing Harry's nervousness, Rookwood sighed and said carefully. "Don't worry Potter, as much as it pains me to admit, you're powerful and motivated enough to get this technique down. But that's only _if_ you drop this kindergarten stuff right now and start practicing the real thing."

Harry looked thoughtful for a moment and then nodded in acceptance. "Very well, we'll start right after the breakfast. But first, let me just remove that block I've placed earlier."

Rookwood looked rather reluctant, before nodding apprehensively. "Alright. But for the love of Merlin, do try and keep that power of yours in check for once. I'm really not up for another headache."

"I'll try," Harry fought down a smirk, as he retrieved his wand and incanted "_Commeminssate!_"

Harry projected positive feelings down the newly formed link, quickly locating the appropriate section of Rookwood's mind. He let the flow of happy memories smoothly slip through his mental fingers, until he felt a slight bump on the memory lane. Harry stopped his search there and pushed more magic towards the distortion, enveloping it and separating it from the other memories, until there was a clearly distinguishable sphere formed around the memory block. With an evil smirk, he gathered a relatively huge blob of magic and viciously pushed it into the bubble, making it literally explode under the onslaught. His job done, Harry quickly retreated from Rookwood's mind and formed an expression of innocent apprehension on his face.

A moment later, Rookwood groaned and rubbed his eyes blearily, fighting a mammoth headache. "For fuck's sake Potter, I told you to watch that magic of yours. Don't you have any control over it, boy?"

"Sorry," Harry winced sheepishly, trying really hard not to smirk.

Rookwood gave him a suspicious look, showing just how convinced he was by Harry's act, before shaking his head dejectedly and murmuring something that sounded like "Smartarse." He then closed his eyes for a few seconds, browsing through the memories he had just recovered.

"You know, that was very rude of you, first needling me into an argument and then interrupting me in the middle of a rather nice comeback!" Rookwood snapped once he went through the first fifteen minutes of their session, referring to the way that conversation ended.

Harry rolled his eyes and drawled back. "Whatever, I already knew what you're gonna say anyway. _Dark Lord is cool, blah, blah, destroy the Ministry, blah, blah, kill all the mudbloods-_"

"That's not what I said! I just told you to take your wand and shove it up your-"

"Feeling up for some déjà vu?" Harry challenged, pointing his wand towards Rookwood's forehead threateningly.

"Alright, alright, I get the point, you curse-happy little prick," Rookwood hastily prevented another Oblivation, finishing the sentence in a barely audible murmur.

"Excellent," Harry chirped back smugly, as he let his wand slip back into his arm holster. "So, how about some breakfast then?"

• • • • •

As usual, the breakfast consisted of dry canned food and muggle sodas in plastic cups. After some grumbling about lousy treatment, Rookwood selected mince pie, toast and pineapple, and let Harry chop it to pieces suitable for handling with bare hands. Of course, that didn't stop the Death Eater from utilizing his well-versed methods of silent protest at having to wear jellobind during his meals with Harry. He would intentionally miss his mouth, spraying food all over himself, or spill the soda and blame it on his clumsy restrained hands, all in a vain hope that Harry would take pity on him and remove the bracelet during the course of the meal. Of course, Harry remained impassive at his prisoner's plight. After years of sharing meals with the Dursleys, abysmal table manners left little to no impact on his appetite. After the breakfast was finally over, Harry quickly cleaned the pigsty left after Rookwood's meal, before banishing the tray and getting ready for some real work.

Harry quickly learned that the _neutral zones_ cloaking technique more than lived up to its reputation of being extremely difficult to get a grip on. As he suspected, the main hitch was focusing no emotion at all into a 'bubble', without just 'staring' blankly at it, or, in the other extreme, pumping up some combination of frustration and anger. Even worse, Rookwood obviously knew a thing or two about solving this problem, but the contracts he'd signed with the Unspeakables prevented him from saying much about it, which infuriated Harry to no end.

It took Harry almost an hour and half of constant practice to make the initial breakthrough and nudge his bubble even a little bit towards the neutral zone. That finally cheered him up a bit and broke him out of his funk, even if he wasn't exactly sure how he'd managed to do it. Unfortunately, at that point, both he and Rookwood were suffering from heavy headaches and disorientation, a side effect of using too much mind magic in a short period of time. Thus, Harry decided that he'd had enough Oblivation training for the day, content to end his session on a slightly uplifting note.

After sharing a light snack with Rookwood, toasted with a couple of aspirins to appease their headaches, Harry decided to move on to an area of magic that was quickly growing on him – _magical pooling._ The gist of this technique was basically collecting raw magic inside the wand and using it to quickly power up spells, without cumbersome delays during the casting and feeling drained upon release. This whole idea came rather easy to Harry, probably because of the excess reserves of magic he seemed to posses. Unfortunately, powerful bursts of magic buckling through his wand just felt too damn appealing to the young wizard, making him slowly develop a tendency to overpower his spells beyond reasonable limits their matrixes allowed.

This tendency Rookwood seemed very motivated to crush, which was understandable seeing how he was the most regular victim of these overenthusiastic discharges. That's why the first twenty minutes of the lesson were spent with Rookwood ranting and raving about the importance of precision and control when pooling magic and stating all the possible pitfalls of overpowering spells, augmenting his each claim with rather colourful examples. Harry's callous comment that he was just peeved because he got hit with an overpowered spell that morning only served to add more fuel to the fire.

In the end, it took another Oblivation threat to bully Rookwood into ending his theoretical session, as he called it. He sulked for a few minutes, but his mood lifted somewhat when Harry finally admitted that his control over magical pooling was indeed lacking and required some practice. Rookwood was quick to come up with a whole family of spells designed just for the purpose of testing and improving that skill. There were several dozens of these charms, all easy to learn, and all with different power requirements, in the terms of minimal and maximal amounts of magic their matrix can handle. Their effect was uniform too - each spell would conjure a kaleidoscope of colours, informing the caster of the amount of magic they've infused, compared to maximal and minimal power levels that particular spell can take.

After some time of practicing with several of these spells, Harry came to realize just how erratic his control actually was. What he considered a normal dose, was actually spiking through the matrix's upper power limit half way through. Harry would usually manage to pinpoint the right amount after several attempts, but this never became instinctive to him, even after several tips from Rookwood on how to sense when the maximal charge was reached.

A whole hour of practice unfortunately did nothing to break him through this block. The only thing he had to show for his effort was the ability to gauge his precision after the fact, once the spell has already left his wand.

Of course, Rookwood was quick to blame this relative failure on Harry's lack of motivation, claiming that he was still too taken by his own power to give this line of training a real shot. After some argument and another rant on Rookwood's part, they finally agreed to perform a test.

Harry brought in three old coils from the warehouse and, with some effort, transfigured them into huge marble slabs. The idea was to select some real-life destructive spell, and then compare the effects of a perfectly powered shot with one of Harry's standard overcharged blasts. Rookwood, of course, wouldn't even hear of using the good old _Reducto_. He even went as far as to mock Harry's previous attempt at casting this spell, mimicking rather successfully the consequent startled look on the younger man's face. After a few 'subtle' reminders of how that fight had actually ended, Rookwood sulkily explained to Harry incantation and wand movements of an above-average rock-churning spell they've agreed to use for the purpose of the test. After the ten minutes it took Harry to familiarize himself with the spell, everything was finally ready for the experiment.

"_Comminuere Interna!_" Harry said casually, letting a brown beam of magic spill out of his wand and burrow itself into one of the stone slabs, creating a fine web of cracks over its entire surface.

"Alright, that's the normal charge," he said to Rookwood, while inspecting the layer of fractures and ruptures with a slight dissatisfied frown marring his face. He then levitated the slab aside and placed the second one in its place. "Now for the real thing."

Harry exhaled his breath and started pooling power in his wand, relishing the feel of magic buzzing stronger and stronger at the tips of his fingers, itching to be released at his command. After collecting as much power as he could hold, Harry released it into the spell matrix with strong, powerful swipes of his wand, yelling out the incantation "_COMMINUERE INTERNA!"_

His wand bucked back, as huge brown beam burst out of it, smacking straight into the slab with a resounding crash. The giant marble block was forcefully thrown into the wall behind it, only the basic strengthening enchantments preventing Rookwood's prison from collapsing under the impact. A cloud of fine stone dust enveloped the whole cell, but was quickly cleared with a pair of air filtering charms. Harry carefully approached the far wall, waving the remnants of dust away. His face split into a self-satisfied grin when he saw the slab adorning huge cracks and ruptures all over it, with several rather large chunks missing from the back when it hit the cell wall.

"Not so bad for a _wand-happy rookie,_ now is it," he said smugly to Rockwood, still admiring his work.

Rookwood rolled his eyes before returning a challenging gaze. "Why don't you try now with the _proper_ way of doing things," he suggested knowingly.

"Gladly," Harry shrugged, looking rather sure of himself. He slowly levitated the heavily damaged slab away, careful not to churn it further, and deposited it besides the first one. He took another moment to admire the outcome of his overpowered beauty compared to the results of an ordinary spell, before levitating the third slab to the customary place in the end of the room.

"I do hope you know some good physical shield, Potter." stated Rookwood sceptically.

"Yeah I do, but we won't be needing it on this distance. I don't think the recoil could get any worse than after that previous blast."

"No, I meant for the slab, dimwit. You know you'll need several attempts at casting the spell to find its upper limit," explained Rookwood.

Harry gave him a dubious look. "Err... And why exactly couldn't I practice the spell on the unshielded slab and repair it after each hit, as I always do?"

"Because!" Rookwood snapped lamely, looking rather like a petulant child at that moment. At Harry's challenging gaze, he huffed and shrugged. "Because I want you to see the results only after you've already found the optimal charge."

"Alright, I guess that's a fair request," Harry relented, feeling rather amused by Rookwood's antics. "The thing is, while I do know a few personal shields, I know none that can be cast on some other object or a person," he admitted.

Rookwood sighed in exasperation, before proceeding with showing Harry how to cast _'Lapidea Vallum de Amicus'_ physical shield. After mastering the spell several minutes later, Harry began alternately casting the rock churner and reapplying the newly learned physical shield on the marble slab, trying to gauge the right amount of power needed to completely power up the hex, without spiking through its matrix.

"I think I've got it," he finally said, after what seemed like ages to the Death Eater.

"Took you long enough," Rookwood muttered grumpily. "So? What are you waiting for?" he snapped, seeing that Harry was still standing idly in the middle of the room.

"Err... How do I remove the shield without damaging the slab?"

"For Merlin's sake boy, don't they teach you anything in that infernal school of yours?" Rookwood snapped, growing visibly impatient to finally prove his point.

"Well, they do teach us all those nice cleaning charms I get to cast on you every hour or two," Harry bit back.

Rookwood seemed on verge of arguing further, but quickly changed his mind and ran Harry through a quick course in dispelling various shield charms, for once seeming more interested in getting the gist of the matter out, rather than taking court with his long speeches. Done with that, he showed him a counter curse that should dispel most physical shields and had him cast it on the slab once he got a hang of it.

"There, you're all ready now. Or do you need me to show you how to tie your shoelaces too," Rookwood snapped impatiently, once the shield was down.

"No, my shoelaces are just fine, although there is this itch on my back that I just can't seem to reach-"

"Potter!" Rookwood snapped. "Get on with the fucking show! I haven't suffered through teaching you more of these annoying charms, just so I could hear more of your abysmal jokes, further wasting my time."

"Yeah, I can see how I must be interrupting your busy schedule of collecting your own shit and using it-" Harry raised his hands in mock-surrender when Rookwood started growling in anger. "Alright, alright, I'm on it. Although, I don't see why I can't just blast the damn thing away like I did the last time," he finished in a murmur, as he took his position and got ready to cast the spell.

Harry closed his eyes and started pooling magic, stopping the process just at the amount he knew was the optimum for the rock churner he was about to use. With a dejected sigh at the moderate amount of magic in his wand, he performed the wand movement in precise flicks and said strongly "_Comminuere Interna!_"

Harry's wand shuddered slightly, releasing a good sized brown beam of magic that flew straight towards the marble slab, before disappearing completely, as if swallowed by the stone. That was the last thing Harry saw before the whole room was enveloped in a suffocating cloud of stone dust. Harry started throwing air fresheners around, feeling slightly confused by this development. _There wasn't much of an impact there, was it? The slab hasn't even swayed when the spell hit it. So where's all this dust coming from?_ he wondered.

Harry was slowly approaching the slab, clearing the air in front of him, only to realize that the slab was gone and in its place stood a large pile of pulverized rocks and stone boulders, most of which not exceeding the size of his fist. He did a double take at the pile of rubble before him, before turning back to Rookwood, an expression of utter confusion plastered over his face. There wasn't need for Rookwood to say _I told you so_; his utterly smug and self-satisfied look spoke more than words could ever express.

"I told you so, Potter! I told you _my way_ would work better, did I? Of course I did! But do you ever listen? No! All you teenagers think you know the best, even when people much smarter and more experienced..."

_Well, it's not like I'd ever thought Rookwood above pettiness,_ Harry grumbled mentally, before tuning out his prisoner's gloating and thinking on what had just happened. As much as he loathed to admit it, it turned out Rookwood had been absolutely right. While his overpowered shot packed much stronger punch, there was an obvious loss in the effects of the spell, a clear consequence of the overabundance of power spilling over its matrix. Harry came to realize that, as much as he thought himself above such failings, he _had_ been rather taken by the blissful feeling of power dancing on his fingertips. He decided to end this bad practice right then and there, and in future, concentrate harder on gaining a firmer control over his magic. After all, there were names for wizards who end up having their magic control them, instead of the other way around, and none of them was what Harry wanted to be remembered by.

He was just about to suggest some more pooling practice, when a wave of dizziness and sleepiness informed him of just how much magic he'd thrown around that morning. He took a glance at his wristwatch and was surprised when he saw it was already one o'clock in the afternoon. _Time flies when you're making progress,_ he thought drowsily, the exhaustion finally catching up with him full force.

"What Potter, am I boring you?" Rookwood snapped snidely at seeing Harry groggily throwing a look at his wristwatch. "Is this another thing I know nothing about and you know the best? Like oh, I don't know, that magical pooling thing? Remember? The one that _I_ was _absolutely right_-"

"No, but I'm afraid it's time for my midday nap," Harry said casually, before whipping a stunner straight at the unsuspecting Rookwood's forehead.

»Finally!« snapped Dick, who had been dozing contently in his corner until the blast tests started. »I thought that man would never shut up. Tom really knows how to pick them, eh?«

»Indeed,« Harry answered tiredly, while casting several more sleeping and restraining spells on his unconscious prisoner. »Would you look out over him while I catch some rest? Thanks, Dick.«

Without waiting to hear the ensued grumbling of his pet, Harry trudged out of the cell and towards his own bunk. He fumbled with his bedside cabinet for a moment, before gulping a fall-asleep biscuit, followed by a nutrition cocktail and a restoration draught. With last vestiges of consciousness, he turned the alarm clock on, before finally falling into a deep, replenishing sleep.

**

* * *

**

After the annoying ringing woke him up at 3 PM sharp, Harry trudged back to the cell, ready for a few more hours of practice before calling it a day. Upon further reflection, he decided not to restart his magical pooling practice, content to let his new awareness about this technique sink in over the night. Instead, he decided to move on to a similar, and yet much harder area of magic - the infamous _'free wielding'_.

This technique was similar to _magical pooling_ in the way that both skills required directing raw magic into one's wand. However, this is where every similarity between the two ended. Magical pooling was consisted of accumulating wild magic inside one's wand, and then using it to power up standardized spells, increasing both their potency and the speed of casting. With _free wielding_, however, one would push this wild magic straight into the outside world and _will_ it to perform the desired effect, completely circumventing the usage of spells, wand movements and incantations. Needless to say, this was much harder than simply providing the raw magic and letting the spell matrix do all the work.

_Not an easy thing to learn, but in the end, I feel it'll be well worth the effort,_ Harry mused, while he recharged the bracelets on Rookwood's arms and cleaned the cell up a bit, banishing the stone slabs and refuse back to the warehouse. Done with the janitor work, he approached his prisoner carefully, a wicked smirk playing on his lips.

"_Ennervate_," he cast on Rookwood quietly, before shaking him awake urgently. "Wake up, Augustus! Wake up, damn it! Hurry up, you fool, the master is coming to see you," he yelled panicky, trying to keep a smile from his face.

Rookwood immediately snapped up, deer in a headlight expression on his face. He whirled his head a few times anxiously, before his eyes caught a smiling form of Harry looming over him. "Blast it Potter, that wasn't funny even the first time you've pulled it, and it's getting pretty fucking annoying after more than a week!" he snapped at Harry, slowly lifting his hand to massage his aching head.

"Trust me, it's much funnier from my point of view," Harry quipped back cheekily, smiling even more when Dick full-heartedly confirmed this from his corner of the room.

Of course, this was the moment when Rookwood remembered the 'conversation' they were having, before Harry called his daily time-out. He seemingly had every intention of returning right back into it, but a few well placed Oblivation threats assured him how bad idea that would have been. This whole ordeal put him into quite a bad mood during the lunch, which to Harry's misfortune, hasn't deterred him much from exercising his rights on silent protest against prisoner mishandling. Thus, after the meal was done, Harry was once again forced to apply his rapidly developing knowledge of cleaning charms and restore Rookwood to something resembling a civilized human being.

Strangely, Rookwood hasn't made too much of a fuss when Harry informed him of moving the training on to the next subject. It might had something to do with _free wielding_ being very similar to _magical pooling_, but Harry suspected that the real reason was more likely his own humble admission that he had been wrong about the whole issue of overcharging spells.

Thus, with the self-satisfied air of a man who deemed himself gifted with both the unmatched intellect - ensuring that he's always right - and a kind heart - allowing him to forgive those less fortunate than himself - Rookwood pointed out how now, once Harry had finally grasped the importance of control, he expected of him to double the effort he invested in practicing that particular aspect of the _free wielding_. Of course, after a comment like this, it wasn't too hard to divine what course Rookwood thought the next lesson should take.

"Alright, so power-flow training it is," Harry sighed half-heartedly, accepting his quasi-mentor's not-so-veiled suggestion. He knew better than to hope for a nice blasting practice, while Rookwood was still high from his earlier moral victory and looking to rub it in any chance he get. Of course, Harry could have easily put his foot down and decided to practice anything he wanted, but the experience had taught him that Rookwood was at his most helpful when he was given a measure of control over the course of training.

_Besides,_ Harry thought_, it's not like I'm opposed to improving my control over the power flow, especially after that demonstration I've just witnessed. Refusing Rookwood's suggestion now wouldn't achieve anything, other than make me feel like a spiteful, vindictive jerk_, he concluded.

"I'll just bring in the _pinball machine_ and get it ready," Harry said offhandedly, before swiftly walking out of the cell, cutting off Rookwood's oncoming rebuttal. He returned a minute later, levitating what seemed like a waist-high, hedged table, with one pair of legs significantly higher than the other.

"It's called the _gravity-hopper_ Potter, and you know it well!" Rookwood lashed out the objection he'd swallowed a minute ago, while Harry carefully deposited the contraption in the corner of the cell and tossed a billiard-sized ball in the hedged area. Thankfully, the start of the training session moments later prevented further bickering about the name of the mysterious object.

It has actually been almost a week since Rookwood had pulled out this particular teaching aid out of his proverbial pocket, and offered it to Harry as a way of improving his abyssal control over the power flow while free wielding. Rookwood's Unspeakable tutors had called it a _gravity-hopper_, when they first introduced it to him during his own training. His death eater colleagues and pureblood aristocrats knew it by that name as well. Dick confirmed that even Tom referred to it as such, a picture that for some reason drew a smile to Harry's face. But as soon as Harry first saw what the item he needed to craft actually looked like, he immediately rechristened it to what he considered a much more appropriate and ultimately _cooler_ name - _'the pinball machine'_. Of course, Rookwood's indignation at the usage of muggle-based title was just an additional bonus for the young wizard.

In reality, the contraption was hardly a pinball machine in the classical sense of that word. It did have a slated surface and a ball trapped within it, but it lacked any obstacles and flippers in the bottom of the table, requiring from 'player' to control the ball using magic instead of mechanics. The rules of the 'game' were quite simple; _Use magic to keep the ball in the middle of slope as long as possible. Any contact with either the upper or the lower edge of the panel signals the end of game._

Of course, as with most things regarding magic, the game was actually much harder than it first appeared to be. Harry would either push too much magic and slam the ball into the upper boarder, or disperse the flow completely, letting the damn thing slid all the way to the bottom.

But today, after the moral defeat he'd just suffered, Harry was determined to give the defiant ball a run for its money and wipe that self-satisfied look from Rookwood's face.

**

* * *

**

After two hours of relentless practice, intersected by Rookwood giving an occasional advice or a rant about something that bothered him in the modern magical world, both men were completely exhausted. Harry was tiredly leaning over his makeshift pinball machine, trying to glare a hole through the uncooperative ball, while beads of sweat slowly dripped from his furrowed forehead. Rookwood wasn't in much better condition either; Overuse of mind magics and restraining bracelets was taking an obvious toll on both his mind and body.

Seeing Harry's frustration, Rookwood tried to encourage him from his vantage point on the ground. "Relax Potter, you did well for a rooky today, better than usual in any case. Why don't we call it a day?"

Harry redirected his glare at the Death Eater, before sighing in frustration. "I think I'll give it another try. Maybe I manage to break the record this time," he decided.

Rookwood waved him off indifferently. "Knock yourself out, kid."

»Actually, try _not_ to knock yourself out. I'm really not up for wrestling with the amazing shitman again«, piped in Dick from his cot, referring to the incident from three days ago, when Harry was rendered unconscious by a misfired spell and only Dick's quick reaction prevented Rookwood from grabbing his wand. It's a good thing crawling never came as naturally to humans as it did to snakes.

»Why not? It would do you a world of good to stretch your legs a bit, you lazy slug,« Harry jibed back, managing a weak smile at his animal partner.

»My legs are just fine, thank you very much!« snapped back Dick, before realizing what he was saying. It happened to him a lot.

»Well, suit yourself. If you wanna spend your whole life laying around, that's your choice,« Harry responded and redirected his attention to the task at hand, leaving Dick to grumble to himself how certain humans should keep their nose out of his preferred way of life, thank you very much.

Feeling slightly better after having some friendly banter with his snake friend, Harry positioned himself in front of the pinball machine and relaxed. He started slowly pushing magic into the wand, as he would when pooling magic, until he felt it hit sort of a barrier in the very tip of the shaft. He immediately recognized the infamous _'wild threshold'_, an invisible wall that separates wizard's own magic from the outside world and the source of litres and litres of tears and sweat shed by countless aspiring wizards throughout the history.

**

* * *

**

Simply put, learning to breach this wall is what separates an excellent wizard from a merely capable one; Or as some would prefer to say, a true magical person from a person that can use magic. Mastering this technique enables direct application of magic in the physical world, without cumbersome incantations and wand movements, which gives the so called _'free wielders'_ a nice edge in combat and a few other areas of magic. Unfortunately, this technique comes with a cost. Without incantations and spells to draw magic out and shape it into a desired effect, it's up to the caster to do achieve this, with the strength of their willpower and magical skill alone. Of course, however talented he might be at manipulating raw magic, no wizard could ever hope to match the precision, complexity and variety of effects that structured magic has to offer. That's why this technique had largely fallen out of practice with the invention of _spellcrafting_, leaving the famous Merlin for its last great practitioner. That's also why mastering this technique nowadays isn't so much a matter of a necessity for the average folks, as a matter of prestige and status in the circles of wizards and witches who are aware that there's much more to magic than mere wand waving and spell casting.

For his part, Harry hadn't understood what the big deal about this art was, until he actually tried his hand at it, two weeks prior to his 16th birthday. Detailed information about free wielding, as it turned out, was suspiciously hard to find, but he was eventually able to piece together a rough method from several different manuscripts he had managed to locate. Instructions finally at hand, he eagerly threw himself into the exciting new field of magic, only to slam headfirst into the infamous _wild threshold_, an obstacle many wizards throughout the history had found impossible to breach.

At that point, Harry had already been well-versed with _magical pooling_, which made the first part of the process - pushing magic into the wand - rather simple to achieve. Only after he'd accumulate a nice blob of magic inside the tip, the real torture would begin. No matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn't figure out the way to push magic _beyond_ the wand and into the physical world. However, Harry was nothing if not determined. Night after night, he'd slam his magic against the threshold, pushing with all his strength until literally collapsing from exhaustion. All his efforts had finally paid off two weeks ago, after nearly a month of nightly torture.

On that particular night, he started his wielding practice later than usual, feeling already drained from the hard day's work. His exhaustion quickly reared its ugly head, rendering him unable to form even a half-decent effort against the threshold. Frustrated, he pushed over and over again, trying to drain the last drop from an already dry sponge. And then, something _strange_ happened - a feeling he vaguely remembered experiencing each time he'd performed _accidental magic_ during his childhood. His magic, for the lack of better term, _coagulated_. What used to be an intangible spectral web congregating towards his wand, suddenly constricted into a focused beam of magic, feeling almost corporal in its narrowest point. The following push crashed harder than ever against the barrier, making the invisible block burst like a soap bubble under the onslaught. Harry was forced to throw himself to the ground, as a mighty wave of magic leaped out of his wand, taking away both the wooden table and the practice feather on it, and slamming them both against the opposite wall with a resounding crash. That night cost him half an hour of flirting with Clarissa the clerk, to hush up the incident. It also cost him five galleons worth of Ogden's Finest and a galleon of anti-hangover potion in the morning.

But even more important, that was the night when Harry realized the vital piece of information about free wielding, the fact that had been suspiciously left out of all the publications dealing with this subject - _the amount of power doesn't matter_. As Harry experienced firsthand, simply pressing huge amounts of magic against the barrier wouldn't even make a dent in it. It's the _concentration_ of magic that is the key to passing the infamous free threshold.

What many wizards fail to grasp is that _coagulating_ magic is completely different technique from increasing its _amount_, popularly referred to as 'magical power'. The latter concept is a decisive factor when performing structured magic, which is why any average wizard or witch is very well versed in dealing with it. The former, however, had largely fallen out of practice, both technically and evolutionally. Unlike certain magical creatures that can coagulate magic instinctively, wizards gradually lose this ability during their ontogenesis. As they grow up, they perform less and less _accidental magic_, until it finally ceases altogether somewhere in the early teens. That's why all prospective _wild wielders_ must workout these atrophied muscles, before even thinking of learning how to shape magic to having one effect or the other. In retrospect, Harry concluded that the process is similar to learning how to wiggle your ears; It seems impossible at first, usually resulting in moving some of the surrounding muscles, but after the initial breakthrough, it gets easier with each try.

Thus, after breaking the barrier for the first time, Harry threw himself into the free wielding with a renewed gusto, slowly learning how to coagulate his magic without making those annoying power spikes, that tend to blow up feathers and launch balls over the edge of the pinball table.

**

* * *

**

All this briefly flicked through Harry's mind, as he let his magic wash over the threshold for a moment, before retreating it to a moderate level. He then closed his eyes and concentrated on a delicate drapery twisting itself into his wand, forcing his newly found muscles to intensify it into a constricted ramming beam directed towards the accursed barrier. After ten seconds of utmost concentration, he reached the highest thread intensity he could muster at the moment, and then pushed it gently towards the tip. He felt the barrier give way, as an invisible beam of magic burst out of his wand towards the red ball laying in the boarded bottom of the slanted surface. The ball jumped upwards, for a moment threatening to hit the top edge, but Harry quickly quenched the power, letting it slide down towards the safe area in the middle. Harry only vaguely registered Rookwood activating a stopwatch; His whole concentration was on regulating the beam of magic, trying to keep up its intensity, without increasing the power output. And indeed, what followed was a strange dance, where the ball would jump up during power spikes and slid down when the beam would lose its consistency. Small beads of sweat appeared on Harry's forehead, but he kept the attention on the pinball, determined to keep the game going as long as possible. Unfortunately, his concentration soon began to slip as fatigue kicked in, resulting in bigger and bigger oscillations the ball was making over the board. Finally, the beam lost its focus for a moment too long, allowing the ball to hit the bottom screen.

"Fuck!" Harry cursed viciously and lashed out in frustration, launching the ball over the pinball's top, into the wall behind it and from there, bouncing all over the cell. "Time?" he barked at his prisoner.

"1 minute, 27 seconds, and I assure you Potter, I can hear perfectly well," Rookwood drawled back, his impassiveness indicating this was the way Harry's 'pinball games' often ended.

"Fuck! Four seconds short of the record!" Harry cursed, as he brandished his wand furiously and banished the pinball table back to the warehouse, not caring it hit something on its way. The ease and simplicity of good old spellwork came to Harry like a cold, refreshing shower after a scorching day at work. Done with his little temper tantrum, he threw himself on a cushion against the wall across from Rookwood and exhaled in relief as he stretched out his aching legs. "No wonder people ditched this stupid shit ages ago," he murmured, as he massaged his aching templates.

"You know Potter, just because you can't cut it, doesn't mean the whole area of magic is worthless. Free wielding is dead useful in combat, not to mention how it gives you a foothold into the wider area of-"

"Rookwood!" Harry interrupted him. "If you don't shut your trap this minute, you're back to _'Ahh, there's shit all over my pimpled face! Take it off! Take it off!'_" he mocked in a shrill girlish voice.

At mention of another Oblivation, Rookwood hastily ended his lecture and scowled at Harry. "It's because of kids like you that they've placed restrictions on underage magic," he grumbled, but bit back further comments, when he saw Harry rubbing his head painfully, a consequence of his amateur acting attempt. He tried to smirk at the foolish boy, only to wince at his own killer headache, a friendly reminder of his earlier endeavours. He really needed another aspirin, or preferably a headache potion.

Harry, on his end, satisfied that he had once again bullied his prisoner into submission, just relaxed and absentmindedly summoned a pair of butterbears from a temporary cooler outside the cell. He opened them, levitated one to Rookwood and gave him a silent toast. Next few minutes were spent in silence, as both man nursed their refreshments, contemplated on their day so far. Rookwood, who was much more rested than Harry was, broke the silence first. "So, what's going on in the real world these days?"

"Well, yesterday's edition of Daily Prophet printed another article about poor lil' me's cruel fate. This time, I had apparently been kidnapped by muggle white slavers and sold as a sex toy to a Middle Eastern drug lord," Harry said, rolling his eyes at the wizard kind's rampaging stupidity.

Rookwood chuckled tiredly. "You probably have Lucius to thank for that. Turning the public against muggles has always been his forte. Not to mention there are rumours he had dealings with a few sex slaves himself."

Harry nodded. "I figured as much. Well, bummer for Lucius that no one will remember his little foray into the world of fiction past tomorrow."

Seeing Harry's smirk, Rookwood frowned. "Potter... what are you planning?"

Wordlessly, Harry whipped his wand and summoned one specific letter from his work desk back in the warehouse, before gently levitating it to Rookwood. The older man plucked the letter from thin air with his restrained hands and started reading it, murmuring an occasional passage under his breath. "_Dear editor, I'm sending you this missive in hope of disproving false allegations regarding my so called disappearance... just seen a copy of your esteemed publication after several days incommunicado... merely enjoying my vacation out of public eye... please find enclosed copies of my muggle guardian permits, as a proof that I have every right to travel on my own discretion... not sure why neither my headmaster (Mr. Albus Dumbledore) nor the Ministry officials deemed fit to inform the public of this fact, but instead... Sincerely yours, Harry James Potter._"

Rookwood finished the letter and gave Harry an approving look. "Nice move Potter. This will damage both Fudge's and Dumbledore's reputation _and_ get the Ministry off your back. Just out of curiosity, why did you wait five days to do this?"

"Why, I was simply waiting for Dumbledore to dig his own hole with all those supporting interviews about the Ministry's search operation," Harry smirked nastily. "Not to mention that news like this will have much greater impact now that the Ministry has already wasted thousands of taxpayers' galleons on a needles task."

"I figured as much," Rookwood smirked back, before frowning in puzzlement. "What I don't understand is why Dumbledore exposed himself like that, when he could have simply stayed in the background and let Cornelius take all the heat."

"I don't think he had much of a choice," Harry replied thoughtfully. "My best guess is that Fudge had wrongly concluded that the initial report about my disappearance was just some sort of Dumbledore's trick targeted against him-"

"Hold on there," stopped him Rookwood. "What initial report?"

"Oh, didn't I mention it? As soon as Dumbledore figured out the game with my relatives, I made sure that both Fudge and Voldemort find out about it too."

"You what?" snapped Rookwood incredulously. "You _willingly informed_ the Dark Lord that you've left Dumbledore's protection? Potter... are you freaking mad or just plain suicidal?"

"Well, seeing how I'm still alive, it must be the former," Harry snapped, rolling his eyes at Rookwood's blind faith in his master's infallibility. "Besides, Voldemort would have learned of it anyway, either from his spies or just by monitoring the Order's movements. This way, I at least curried a favour or two with certain underground elements."

Rookwood just shook his head, murmuring about the foolishness of youth and Gryffindors in particular.

"Anyway," Harry interrupted him. "Imagine Fudge's indignation and paranoia when this supposedly falsified report targeted at dethroning him suddenly reached the press. I bet he made Dumbledore chose between publicly backing him up and his search operation, or becoming a target of another smear campaign, something the old man definitely didn't need now when Riddle is almost ready to strike."

"Well, that's a rather far-fetched theory, but I can't find a flaw in its logic." Rookwood nodded thoughtfully after a moment of reflection. "Of course, you do realize that this would notify Dumbledore to the fact that you're not as deep inside some rainforest as he'd been led to believe?"

"Yeah, I figure he'd grow suspicious of me at least having someone helping me out on the island," Harry confirmed and then shrugged. "Dumbledore is a smart man. He's bound to see through my deception sooner or later. This way, I at least get to keep a measure of control over him, for a change," he concluded, as he finished his butterbeer and stood up tiredly.

Rookwood gave the young wizard a dubious look, before shrugging and leaning back against the wall. "So, how will you deliver the letter? Be mindful that an owl's memory can be examined."

"I know better than to leave anything traceable back to my location," Harry admonished. "I'll simply make the delivery in person; You know, just sneak in under my Invisibility cloak and leave it on the front desk. I'm already having a meeting tonight, so I'll do it on my way there," he explained, while banishing a rather beaten up pinball ball back to the warehouse.

"A meeting? Ahh, so you're finally starting up this mysterious plan of yours. What was the name of that bloke again... Peterson?"

"Pederson. And yes, I have a rather unbelievable, complicated, over-thought, farfetched and ultimately, very likely futile scheme planned, that requires this guy's unwitting help to be carried out," Harry spoke absentmindedly, while inspecting the cell, making sure that all potentially dangerous objects are accounted for and removed from Rookwood's habitat. He nodded to himself in satisfaction, before directing his attention towards his still restrained prisoner.

"And, pray tell, what the objective of this half-brained scheme might be?" Rookwood drawled, hoping to postpone the inevitable.

"Well, that would be breaking into the Ministry's central archive and retrieving an official, certified copy of one of their level 7 files, without anyone ever finding out about it," Harry replied casually as he snapped his wrist, letting his wand smoothly slid into his right hand.

He waited just long enough for Rookwood to form an incredulous expression on his face, before wiping it off with a stunner to his head.

_Let him ponder on that one until tomorrow_, Harry concluded with a slightly sadistic smirk playing on his lips.

• • • • •

Rookwood stirred and shook his head blearily. He immediately recognized the after-effects of a stunning spell and utilized certain advanced mental techniques to fight them off. A mere second later, he was wide-awake and alert, his body tensing instinctively in anticipation of danger. That was also the moment when his memories returned, including the last thing he'd heard before losing conscience. His head immediately snapped up, spotting his captor, who was slowly retreating towards the door, with his wand drawn and his snake curled around his arm.

Thousands of questions flew through Rookwood's mind, but faced with the incredulity the idea he'd just heard, the only thing he managed to utter was a weak "_What!?_"

"Sweet dreams, Rookwood," chirped back Harry, before swiftly stepping out of the cell.

"Potter wait!" yelped Rookwood as he jumped up to his feet and ran towards the door, a distant part of his brain relishing the feel of unrestricted movements.

The only answer he received were sounds of a door slamming shut and a latch settling in place. Rookwood reached the door a few seconds too late, but he immediately started banging on it furiously. "Potter! Explain yourself!"

After a few more seconds of futile demands and threats, Rookwood pressed his ear against the door and picked up a faint sound of steps fading away and off-key whistles of some cheerful tune. "Potter! I don't care! You hear me!? I don't fucking care! You can take your stupid secret and shove it up your arse! Ha! Déjà vu that, you obnoxious brat!"

He waited hopefully for a few more seconds, before giving up and retreating to his cot sulkily.

"That little prick, what did he mean by that?" Rookwood brooded, slowly coming to realize that he would spend many following hours asking himself that same question over and over again.

Needless to say, his next escape plan would be far from his usual level.

**

* * *

**

»»»  
**Author notes  
**«««

**EDIT: This chapter had been edited after the posting of chapter 8. Grammar and writing style were fixed a bit, but the plot remained absolutely the same. **

**o - Harry the amazing innovator **

You might have noticed I took a jibe at all those fics where Harry, in a spur of moment, discovers something that _no one,_ throughout the whole history of humankind, has _ever_ thought of before. Classic examples of this plot tool are: Harry asks house-elves to teach him their brand of magic; Harry speaks kindly with the Goblins, which gains him big benefits in Gringotts; Harry teaches DA team tactics, that helps them trounce the disorganized death eaters; Harry asks his house elves to apparate him through wards, to high security locations; Harry uses muggle methods/tools to fool the backwards/ignorant wizards; Harry doesn't know limitations of magic so he can do anything he desires strongly enough etc...

**o - Canon contains hints of "free wielding"? **

_'Free wielding'_ and _'magical pooling'_ are two new concepts that are part of a relatively comprehensive 'theory of magic' that I've developed for the purpose of this story (it will be introduced gradually). And while 'magical pooling' is pretty much made up from scratch, the idea of free wielding was inspired by several passages from the HBP, where characters performed some rather unusual effects with their wands.

For example:

_"I'd rather not be interrupted," said Scrimgeour shortly, "or watched," he added, pointing his wand at the windows, so that the curtains swept across them.  
(HBP Chapter 1: The Other Minister) _

Now, I know this is supposed to be a foreshadowing of 'nonverbal spells', but ask yourselves, who in their right mind would invent a spell that opens or closes a pair of curtains? And who would bother learning it anyway?

There are more hints of this: Dumbledore sliding chairs at the Dursleys, him and Horace cleaning up Slughorn's house, madam Pomphrey closing screens around hospital beds, etc... By going with the theory that these are 'nonverbal spells', I just can't imagine the kind and number of spells needed to achieve these varied effects.

Thus, I added a technique allowing direct manipulation of magic (or _telekinesis,_ if you will).

**o - Sources and additional disclaimers **

Information about Norse runes (I used only one, I believe):

members-aol-com/JehanaS/futhark/

The encyclopedias I've used for reference are Britannica 2005 and Wikipedia (www-wikipedia-org).

I don't own any intellectual property mentioned above.


	8. Bring in the pawn! Release the plan!

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**Potter's Resistance 1: Breaking Ties **

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**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic, and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to Harry Potter.

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**Chapter 8: Bring in the pawn! Release the plan!  
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Gudmund Pederson approached a muggle pub wearing a carefully constructed look of contempt on his face. He really didn't have anything against the 'ungifted' stock, but he felt it his duty as a wizard to lord his kind's superiority over the unfortunate sods without any magical talent. Opportunities for Gudmund to feel superior over anyone or anything were few and far between; He was damn well determined not to miss any of them.

_Besides_, he reasoned, _showing disdain towards muggles and Mugglebo... Mudbloods is highly appreciated amongst the right sort of people in the Ministry these days._ And Gudmund was anything but the sort of man to go against the flow.

Several moments later, he found himself inside the half-empty pub, looking for his contact. It wasn't very difficult to locate the man he was supposed to meet. Even if he wasn't wearing the prearranged sign - a golden-red Gryffindor badge on his robes - the unknown wizard's whole appearance was a dead giveaway. He was a bald, sturdy fellow, with rectangular wire frame glasses and bushy grey moustaches. Even though he looked about 40 or 50 years old, there was something very youthful in his stature. His rigid posture and guarded expression almost screamed 'a man on a mission', especially in a bar filled with relaxed muggles, having a drink after a hard day at work. Mentally cataloguing his target's lack of proper muggle attire as a potential - if a rather weak - bargaining chip, Pederson confidently strutted to the table and sat down without asking.

Taking another look at the badge the man had said he would be wearing, Gudmund cleared his throat and said in what he hoped was a confident, superior tone, "I believe you are the one who summoned me here, mister..."

"You can call me Wilton," answered the man calmly.

"Ah, so a fake name, no? Trying to hide something, _mister Wilton_?" Gudmund sneered, deciding to put the mysterious man on the defensive from the start, just as they had taught him during the auror training.

Wilton raised his eyebrow. "My real name, perhaps?" he countered sarcastically.

"So you openly admit to have lied to an official law enforcement officer, _sir_?" Pederson sneered. "It makes one wonder what an upstanding and law-abiding citizen of Great Britain would have to hide from one of its faithful public servants. Of course, that's assuming that you _are_ an upstanding citizen, _mister Wilton_?"

Wilton gave Pederson a sharp look and then leaned back with a half-amused expression on his face. "Well, I am hardly _standing up_ right now, am I?" he chuckled lightly.

Wilton's casual dismissal incensed Pederson. "Breaking the law is hardly a laughing matter, _sir_" he seethed. "I sincerely doubt that violation of article 9F, section 7 of International Statute of Secrecy - the prohibition of wearing wizard garments in the presence of muggles - is the biggest of your malfeasances! That's right, _mister Wilton_, you may hide behind your fake names and blank masks all you like, but I'm on to you now. You didn't honestly believe that your feeble attempts at disguising your misdeeds would pass unnoticed by the top security specialist of the Minister's elite bodyguard unit, did you,_ mister Wilton?_" Pederson stopped there, deciding that he had intimidated Wilton enough. The man's blank mask and apparent indifference somewhat unsettled him, but he decided to stick with the step-by-step instructions listed in the Aurors' Interrogation Guidebook. _'Offer a carrot after showing a stick', _he mentally quoted a bold caption from the manual - which he remembered largely thanks to a funny cartoon of a donkey beneath the caption.

"Of course, Mr. Wilton," he started in a somewhat milder manner, without a customary sneer at the other man's fake name, "the fact that you came forward by yourself speaks highly in your defence. I'd be more than willing to look past some of your less apparent misdemeanours if - and only _if_ - you show the appropriate willingness to cooperate with a representative of your elected authorities." Deciding to take the man's silence as a yes, Pederson went on. "So, now since that whole incognito foolishness is behind us, why don't we start over? What is your _real_ name sir, and why are you _really_ here?" finished Pederson slyly, quite pleased with the way he had followed the instructions to the letter.

Wilton, however, kept his face impassive and only raised an inquiring eyebrow. After a few more seconds of tense silence, he finally snorted in amusement. "That's it?" asked almost indignantly. "That's your 'carrot and stick' routine, sonny?"

Pederson flushed in anger, stammering a little, but then quickly pulled himself together by mentally latching to another rulebook. "Mr. Wilton, calling an official law enforcement agent a derogatory name is punishable by..."

"Because if it is," interrupted the older man, "you should probably note that, even though you followed rule 7 of the 'Auror's conduct towards suspicious individuals' to the letter, you forgot all about the Auror's general codex, statement 5: 'Never make an offensive move without analyzing the situation beforehand'. So, what exactly did you divine about me before going in for the kill, _sonny_?" Wilton finished in a mocking tone.

Gudmund bristled with irritation, but then his eyes lit with an idea. "If I were you, _mister Wilton_, I would be more concerned with how you happen to know the exact wording of the rules mentioned in the Auror's Handbook. It is my duty to remind you that unauthorized possession of restricted literature such as the Handbook is punishable by law, and carries a penalty of up to three months in Azkaban prison and a fine of 5,000 galleons, fundable by seizure of the convict's personal property or, if not applicable, an additional three months of prison time. That said, as a law-enforcement officer, I can't help but feel _extremely curious._ How exactly do you happen to know this highly restricted information, _mister Wilton?" _Pederson finished triumphally, pleased with how he had regained the initiative.

"Well, like you said sonny, it's all in this "Auror's Handbook" publication that I happen to own. It's practically filled to the brim with nifty little advices such as this. You should really read it sometime. It'll do you a world of good..."

"Aha! You admit you've broken the law!" interrupted Pederson, pointing his finger at Wilton accusingly and feeling a bit surprised himself that the other man had admitted his transgression that easily.

"No I didn't," said Wilton calmly, his expression completely blank.

"You... How? Yes you are! You already said..."

"What I said was that I indeed own a copy of Auror's Handbook. I never said that my copy is _unauthorized_," explained the older man calmly.

Pederson just sat there deflated, gaping like a fish. He knew he should say something, anything. He blurted the first thing that came to his mind. "You are an auror?"

"Tell me sonny, where exactly do you think you've made a mistake during this little chat of ours?" asked Wilton, taking the initiative and ignoring the other man's question.

"Well, I... Yes, I admit I might have leapt to the conclusion about that handbook, but you still-"

"Or in other words, you've attacked me needlessly, without gathering proper information about me first... And why exactly did you try to do that?"

Gudmund again seethed with irritation. This interview wasn't at all going the way he had planned. When he had received a mysterious summons to an out-of-the-way muggle pub, 'to have a conversation that could turn out highly profitable for both parties', he immediately decided to accept the invitation. Of course, he had planned to easily divine his mysterious contact's agenda using his superior auror interrogation techniques, but it turned out that the man had completely outsmarted him and turned the tables around. Gudmund had half a mind to simply walk away right then and there and forget this whole incident, but his stubborn sense of pride and lingering curiosity made him stay seated and listen to what the other man had to say.

Taking a breath, Gudmund tried to calm himself. "That's the standard auror procedure, Wilton. No hard feelings, right?" he smiled weakly.

"Is it also standard auror procedure to leap forward without planning? To abuse your authority by harassing civilians? To lie about your real position and influence inside the government?" asked Wilton calmly but sharply, ignoring Pederson's weak attempts at appeasing him.

"Err... I just... I wasn't abusing... I didn't lie about my position!" snapped Pederson irritably and, with a practiced motion, pulled out his official bodyguard identification badge from a specially designed pocket on his robes. Its edges were rather worn out from all the practicing he'd done in front of a mirror, but all the important parts were shining brightly under layers of meticulously applied polish. Pederson resisted an urge to caress his well-earned badge fondly, as he would sometimes do in private, and instead stuck it triumphantly into the other man's face.

Wilton just smirked slightly, looking very unimpressed by Gudmund's badge, much to the other man's chagrin. "I don't see a 'top security specialist' caption anywhere on this badge. Do you?" he countered calmly.

Pederson snarled and angrily snapped the badge back to his pocket with a huff, as if deeming the other man unworthy of seeing such perfection. "Look here, Mr. Wilton. I have come here - on your own request, mind you - to hear what you have to offer, NOT to prattle about some silly technicalities and other such nonsense," snapped Pederson. The fact that he was the one who first started doing it has totally slipped from his mind.

"Tell me, Mr. Pederson, how do you deem your chances of actually getting this... 'top security specialist' tag on that badge of yours? Or any promotion at all in the foreseeable future?" Wilton asked, completely ignoring the other man's outburst.

"My career and personal life are none of your business, Wilton! Now, would you please get to the point of this meeting? I've lost enough time already," said Pederson, getting even more irritated. The other man had obviously hit a painful spot.

"Where do you see yourself in five years from now, Gudmund? Or ten? Or let's say... after the next staff revaluation, scheduled for the beginning of the next year?" Wilton kept pressing in his calm voice.

Pederson blushed furiously in anger. The other man was sailing in dangerous waters now, mercilessly pulling at the strings of Gudmund's deep personal insecurities. "Get to the point, Wilton, or I'm leaving!" he yelled, only a combination of notice-me-not and silencing charms preventing him from making a scene in the pub.

"Calm down, Gudmund," said Wilton with a hint of amusement in his voice. "Things are not as bad as they seem, really. I hear that the Centaur Liaison Office is also issuing badges these days... Of course, they are nowhere near as nice as the MLE ones, but I'm sure few will notice the difference if you polish it as much as the one you have now," he smirked.

Pederson's face looked like it would explode in anger. He stood up abruptly, overturning the chair behind him, and pointed a shaky finger at Wilton's face. He stood like that for some time, shaking in anger while trying to think of something, anything witty or derogatory to say. Unfortunately, he was never much of an orator and especially not when he was furious, like now. So, with an undignified yell of "Fuck you!" Pederson promptly turned and stalked towards the door.

"Losing your temper won't help you keep your job, Gudmund," said Wilton quickly, while standing up. "But I can."

At hearing those words, Pederson stopped in his tracks. Then slowly, very reluctantly, he turned back and gave the other man a cold, angry glare, but with some curiosity dancing in his eyes. Wilton had to suppress a smirk at seeing traces of tears on Pederson's face. Instead, he smiled gently and pointed at the overturned chair in a welcoming gesture. "Why don't you sit down and hear me out? I said you will profit from this meeting and I have every intention of keeping my word," he said softly, sincerely.

Pederson regarded him coldly for some time, but in the end, self-preservation prevailed.

"Fine!" he snapped as he resettled the chair and sat back down. "But no more games! You tell me what you offer and you tell me now! Or I'm leaving, and this time for good!" he said in prissy manner, like a spoiled child demanding more presents for Christmas.

"Very well, Gudmund, just calm down," Wilton soothed him and then retrieved a bulky envelope from his robe pocket and placed it on the table. "Now tell me, Gudmund, what do you know about Sirius Black?"

• • • • •

"Now tell me, Gudmund, what do you know about Sirius Black?" Harry asked and leaned back in his chair, watching confusion and curiosity battle in Pederson's eyes. Oh, it was so easy manipulating the poor bastard. For a moment there he almost felt sorry for the idiot, but then he remembered his stuck-up conduct from earlier on, and figured he deserved pretty much everything he's going to get. _At least he'll do one good thing in his life. So what if he won't do it knowingly or willingly? _

"Black? He's still on the loose, probably drinking tea with You-Know-Who as we speak. What's he got to do with anything? And what's that?" Pederson asked, pointing at the envelope.

"That, my dear Gudmund, is your ticket to the big league. But we'll speak about that later." Harry's mystical comment was awarded by a curious look in the other man's eyes, as he tried to devour the envelope with his stare.

Harry had to suppress a smirk at how easy it was to lead the poor fool by his nose. He'd often seen this technique used by the muggle TV networks. Instead of just showing some exclusive material, they would first spend a good deal of time announcing it, talking about it, warning viewers about it and generally building up the 'hype'. Once they were done with all the quasi-warnings about its shocking contents and advice for children to close their eyes, the viewers would get so curious, that they would swallow the footage like candy, whether it was really that good or not. With that in mind, Harry protectively wrapped his arm around the envelope and slowly pulled it back towards his chest, to Pederson's barely concealed disappointed.

"What I wanted to know is what do you really know about Sirius Black? Or the Black family in general?" Harry asked, startling Pederson from his reverie.

"Uh... I believe Black was unemployed at the time of his arrest, presumably living on the Black family trust fund... and whatever payment You-Know-Who was giving him, of course. As for the family itself, it's very old and very noble. I understand that the family fortune is mostly gone these days, but all the hereditary titles and chairs on various boards are still worth a lot in terms of political influence and authority," explained Pederson, giving mostly publicly available knowledge, with only a few titbits he had gathered during his own research. After all, folk with political power were the right kind of people to get chummy with. It could never hurt to know as much about them as possible.

"Ahh, I see you've done some research on the old families yourself. A very wise move for someone with the ambition to succeed in our world," Harry nodded approvingly, making Pederson lighten up at praise.

"Of course I did," he nodded self-importantly. "The Black family carries a lot of influence and prestige in all levels of society, even with their... less than favourable financial backing at the moment."

"It's only too bad that Sirius Black managed to get himself tangled up with You-Know-Who and arrested without leaving a suitable substitute to take over the family reins in his absence," Harry added, trying to produce a contemptuous sneer in hope of prodding Pederson to blab further.

"Exactly," replied Pederson animatedly, then leaned in and continued in a secretive tone. "It's very strange situation with the Blacks these days. All political and financial functions of the family have been in a state of complete disarray for the past 15 years. And at the root of this whole mess seems to be an attempt of the old mistress, Alfonsina Black, to discipline her traitorous son, who was an active heir at the time, by placing 'Nocens cruor' restrictions on his name."

Of course, Harry knew all about the 'bad blood' tag, having read about it when he researched the particulars of the Black situation. It is an obscure pureblood rite that the acting regent of an old family can utilize as a measure against a heir whose conduct they deem to be in conflict with said family's pre-established norms and ideals; Or in the case of the Blacks, against potential blood-traitors and muggle lovers. 'Nocens cruor' severely limits the heir's authority, especially regarding heredity and financial issues, and prevents him from appointing his own heir outside the strict family bloodline. This is usually used as a short-term measure for limiting the wayward heir's authority, until the family council could meet and properly discuss his future. These tribunals can have a variety of different outcomes, ranging from the complete disinheritance and banishment from the family, to the complete reinstatement of heredity rights, in case the culprit sees the error of his ways and bend his ideals to the council's will.

Pederson continued his tale. "You see, it seems that, at the age of 15, young Black had done something so unthinkable, that the old mistress was forced to completely block his status within the family."

"He ran away and went to live with the Potters," nodded Harry. The old bat probably expected him to come crawling back after a few days of being left without income and other privileges. She obviously never expected his uncle Alphard and the Potters to help him out.

Pederson nodded, as if he had known that all along. "Well, unfortunately for her and the rest of the family, she procrastinated in calling in the family tribunal for far too long. She died less than a year later, never having a chance of cleaning up her son's status one way or the other."

Harry nodded approvingly, as though a teacher commending a good pupil. _I guess she couldn't fathom that someone would rather choose friendship and freedom over money and power. She must have been keeping her hopes up until her dying breath that Sirius would eventually see reason and turn into the nice little Death Eater she had always wanted him to be_, he mused.

Aloud Harry said, "Thus, the legal vacuum ensued. With her death, Sirius was instantly promoted into the acting head of the family. He became the only person able to call in the family council and incidentally the very person who repeatedly refused to do so in the few years prior to his incarceration. Since the council never had a chance to meet, Sirius was never officially declared Lord Black, which would have restored his full headship privileges and appointed him a deputy to look after the family in his absence."

Pederson shook his head sadly, obviously not comprehending why someone would refuse a chance to take over the reins of a powerful family. "It must have all been a part of some You-Know-Who's plan, but for the life of me, I can't figure out what it was. I guess only He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and Black will ever know the truth behind that scheme," he said sagely.

Harry of course knew better. Sirius must have found it distasteful to grovel before the bigoted council so they would restore his headship rights. Even though the legal vacuum was costing the branch heads much more than it did Sirius, that probably wouldn't have stopped the death eater sympathizers within the council from wrapping the whole process in as much red tape as humanly possible. Harry could easily see his godfather getting a headache from even thinking about the mess his petition for official removal of 'Nocens cruor' would create.

Furthermore, Harry suspected that Sirius simply found it amusing to make those pureblood bigots helplessly watch their precious fortune and influence waste away, without the backing of the central branch. Harry would have thought it a good tactic - make them sweat for a couple of years and then grab them by the balls once they get desperate enough - but deep down inside, he suspected there was no grand plan or deeper intention in his godfather's little waiting game. The bottom line was, Sirius never cared much about running the Black family's dirty business or playing politician with their various boards. Of course, he also never considered appointing a successor when he was barely 20 years old himself and apparently had his whole life ahead of him. Harry almost smiled sadly at his godfather's rashness and hotheadedness - too bad his practical joke was rudely interrupted by his incarceration.

Aloud, Harry said, "Thus, he became the head of the family, without any of the privileges and powers that normally go with that title."

Pederson nodded, eager to continue with showing off his knowledge. "Exactly, Mr. Wilton. With 'Nocens cruor' still in effect, his control over the family reigns was limited at best. At worst, he was completely prevented from appointing his own heir, or at least a regent. Thus, when his treachery was revealed, the Black family was left both without leadership of any kind, and the legal means of fixing that problem. The goblins managed to save a part of the family fortune by converting gold and shares into real estate and gems, but many investments have gone to waste. Blacks, who had already been in a desperate need for a financial reconstruction, were practically ruined. Imagine, Mr. Wilton, one of the most noble and longstanding old families was reduced to practical non-existence thanks to that filthy traitor."

Restraining himself from punching the little weasel, Harry nodded sadly, trying to parrot the idiot's bitterness. "Even after Black had escaped, there was no chance of him calling in the family council and appointing a regent to handle family affairs in his absence. He couldn't have even named an heir, seeing how he had no allies inside the family and 'Nocens cruor' prevented him from choosing anyone outside the strict Black bloodline."

"Well said, Mr. Wilton," nodded Pederson. "The only way for Blacks to restore their rightful positions is for that insane miscreant to produce a spawn of his own, or get himself killed and leave the lordship to one of his more upstanding cousins abroad," Pederson finished with some conviction, obviously pleased that he had restored at least some measure of his shaken self-respect.

Harry on the other hand had to clench his teeth hard to prevent himself from strangling the little twerp who dared to repeatedly insult his godfather. _Sirius was ten times the man you'll ever be, you butt-kissing self-serving little prick_, he screamed in his mind at Pederson, but quickly managed to collect himself by immersing himself in the analysis of their conversation.

Although Harry had already known almost everything that Pederson mentioned, it was still interesting to see just how much information the little twerp managed to collect about the 'Black situation'. _He must have dug through all the powerful but out-of-grace families' trashes, looking for any opportunity to bite a piece of cake for himself. Filthy little upstart_, Harry concluded. If there was any doubt in Harry's mind about manipulating the stuck-up piece of shit before, it was certainly gone now.

"That was very good Gudmund, very good indeed. It's nice to see a well-informed young man these days," Harry praised, making Pederson blush with pride.

_Establish yourself as superior and a small praise will get you a long way_, he mused, cataloguing this technique as very successful against weak-minded butt-licking idiots.

"Now that you treated me with so much useful information, it's only fair for me to return the favour," said Harry and then leaned in, making a show of looking around for eavesdroppers. "What I'm about to tell you stays between us. You mustn't say a word about this to anyone else," he whispered.

"Of course, Mr. Wilton. You can count on my discretion, I promise," said Pederson hurriedly as he leaned in, always eager to hear a juicy secret. Harry sincerely doubted that Pederson would honour that promise, but it didn't matter anyway. He had to establish an illusion that he trusted the little shit and this was the perfect way to do it.

"Sirius Black is dead," he whispered simply, going for the 'shock' effect.

"What!?" Pederson yelped, but then he pulled himself together and whispered back. "Dead? Are you sure?"

Harry nodded conspiratorially. "It happened during that scuffle inside the Department of Mysteries two months ago. Some eyewitnesses claim that he was killed by an enchanted object kept by the Unspeakables; Others, that he was stuck by a curse and that his body was taken away by the Dark Lord himself," Harry whispered, lying through his teeth.

It simply wouldn't do to start sprouting stories about Sirius' innocence. It was a common mistake made by many of so-called 'conspiracy theorists'. Even some good points they made were quickly overshadowed by tons of bullshit that no one in their right mind would believe. Harry was determined not to make the same mistake. In addition, he was very careful not to tell Pederson any more of the truth than he absolutely had to. _If the little shit tries to spread this around, I'll easily ruin his credibility by providing the real story behind Sirius Black's death. Always have a contingency plan available_, Harry reminded himself, before returning to the explanation.

"That's not all. You see, it seems that at the exact moment of Sirius' death, the Black's legacy stone at Gringotts lost its connection with the Black family ring. Whatever happened down there, one thing is certain - Sirius Black is gone and he somehow took his lordship with him. The story is that the Goblins are already enchanting a new ring and waiting for the mandatory six months to expire, so they could announce a blood ruling for the new head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black," finished Harry in conspiring tone.

Pederson was at this point openly gaping at him. "Sweet Merlin! But... but how come there was no mentions of that anywhere? You'd think someone would have notified the press about You-Know-Who's key enforcer getting killed."

Harry leaned even closer, dropping his voice to barely a whisper. "It seems that the only light supporters present during Black's downfall were Albus Dumbledore's loyalists. I'm almost certain that Dumbledore had put a tap on that information, in hope of postponing the appointment of a dark supporter for the new head of the Blacks. Black family's influence could be the key to turning this war one way or the other, and Dumbledore is desperate to keep it out of the Dark Lord's hands for as long as possible," Harry finished in the best mysterious whisper he could muster, leaning in to Pederson's ear as he spoke. Of course, all that tripe about Lord Black being crucial to the war was pure bullshit, but the appropriate level of mystique and exclusiveness he had wrapped this information in should hopefully befuddle Pederson enough to look past that little inconsistency.

Pederson finally leaned away, an awed look on his face. "Wow... This is just... Wow! Thank you, Mr. Wilton. This is indeed interesting news," he said distractedly, giving Harry an almost reverent look.

On his side, Harry had to suppress a smirk at how quickly he had wormed his way under the idiot's skin. In span of a several minutes, he managed to change his image in Pederson's eyes from a suspicious looking scoundrel, probably up to no good, to a mysterious but respectful gentlemen, worthy of his attention.

Of course, Pederson's character also played a big role in this success. Gudmund was obviously one of those authority-worshiping people, who are completely in tune with their position inside the hierarchy - they gladly use their own authority to repress their lowers, but they also willingly subjugate themselves to the higher ranks. In the army, he would have probably been one of those sadistic officers, who take great pleasure in tormenting their subordinates, while being good little flunkies to their own superiors.

Amongst other things, Harry had briefly browsed through a psychology book about different personality types, from which he developed several theories on how to work his way around each kind. For Pederson's type, which he dubbed as _'arse-lickers-head-kickers',_ the method was relatively simple. It all depended on the way one established themselves during the initial contact.

If the authority-worshiper classifies you as someone inferior, he immediately takes on a role of 'head-kicker'. In that case, it's almost impossible to receive any sort of respect from said person. Whatever you say or do, the 'head-kicker' will subconsciously keep thinking of you as of his 'lower', thus undeserving of his honest attention.

Harry slowly came to realize that this was exactly what happened in his and Ron's relationship with Hermione. She immediately classified the two boys with lower grades for her inferiors, thus people who can't do anything right and need her constant babysitting and guiding. Dumbledore and the teachers, on the other hand, were categorized as seniors, thus people who deserved her unwavering respect and obedience. In her mind, as long as Dumbledore doesn't go out and murder someone in front of her, his word will always be made of gold. The moment Harry recognized this was the moment he realized that his relationship with Hermione could never be the same as it was before this summer. They might still remain friends, but the survival of their mutual unconditional trust depended largely on whether she could somehow 'reclassify' Harry in her mind and put his word above Dumbledore's. He somehow doubted that.

Of course, Harry now knew how to prevent that from happening again. He found it funny that, for all their apparent failings, the Dursleys got that one rule right - _the first impression is everything_. Or in other words, if you manage to establish yourself as the authority-worshiper's superior during the initial contact, they would revert into the role of _'arse-licker'_, becoming extremely open to your opinions and suggestions.

Thankfully, this is exactly what Harry managed to achieve with Pederson. By outwitting him during their initial confrontation, he had de-facto placed himself in the 'superior' category inside the moron's mind. From then on, Harry's every word came with extra weight, his every opinion was unconditionally worth listening. Even though Pederson's conscience still considered 'Wilton' a suspicious-looking stranger with a shady background and even shadier motivation, his subconscious kept screaming, "Listen to your betters, Gudmund! Know your place!" And after a few further manipulations on Harry's part, this is exactly what he ended up doing. Actually, thanks to the man's extreme sycophant nature, it was surprisingly easy gaining an upper hand over the idiot. With some satisfaction, Harry concluded that he had picked his target very well.

A rising calculating gleam in Pederson's expression snapped Harry from his silent gloating, alerting him that the idiot had finally started using his brain. _He's probably already plotting how to regain Fudge's favour by disclosing this information at the right moment_, Harry theorized, having fully expected something like this to happen. After all, as an old Wizarding saying goes, "A snake may change its skin, but never its nature". Harry held no illusion that his current position of respect would stop Pederson from screwing him over in a heartbeat if given the right motive and opportunity.

The next step was a very important part of Harry's plan. He had to dissuade the fool from selling the story to Fudge or the press and lead him on to the greater goal. "You're probably already thinking of how you could use this knowledge to further your career, aren't you? Even though you promised you would keep the secret, if I may remind you," Harry said calmly.

Pederson looked startled for a moment, but then had the good grace to blush and look down.

"Don't worry, you can do with it whatever you like, it would do you no good. Without some concrete evidence, no one would believe a word you said, especially seeing how all the people who could potentially back you up are either under Dumbledore's or the Dark Lord's thumb. And it seems they're both momentarily more than content to play the waiting game, while seeking out potential candidates for the Black lordship and sound out their allegiances," finished Harry nonchalantly. Pederson shifted nervously again. He obviously never thought a single step past his immediate goal and analysed the bigger picture.

"So you can go ahead and pick up the crumbs, if even that, or you can hear me out and snatch the main prize. After all, without this little baby and the correct knowledge on how to use it, all the things you've learned today will remain just interesting trivia and nothing more," finished Harry as he pushed the envelope forward, placing it back in the spotlight. Now was the time to really start building up the hype around the envelope.

Pederson looked uncertain for a moment but then quickly reverted to his well-trained self-righteous pose. "I'll let you know, Mr. Wilton, that I haven't even considered passing this knowledge to anyone without your explicit consent. After all, I've given you my word of honour, haven't I?" He almost managed to make himself look offended because a perfect stranger wasn't showing eternal faith in his hastily made promise. Harry fought down the urge to snort. "Besides," Pederson went on in a somewhat sly overtone. "I somehow suspect that you have more to offer than simple gossip material, however good it may be. Am I right, Mr. Wilton?"

Harry let Pederson's transparent bravado go, satisfied that the idiot was still following his lead. On the other hand, he did find it slightly disconcerting that the little shit was slowly regaining his baring, even trying to take over the lead in the conversation. _A quick change of subject should keep him off balance_, Harry decided.

"Tell me Gudmund, what do you know about Kingsley Shacklebolt?"

Harry's ploy obviously worked, seeing how Pederson's self- righteous confident pose quickly got replaced by utter confusion. "Captain Shacklebolt, from the Special Tasks Division? What does _he_ have to do with anything?"

"Everything, my dear friend, everything," Harry smirked mysteriously. "So, you know him?"

"Well of course I know _of_ him, everyone does. After all, he is widely regarded as one of the best aurors in the Ministry. If you meant do I know him _personally_, then the answer is no. I never had much contact with him, seeing how we are in completely different branches of the Law Enforcement. I see him in passing now and then and salute him on official occasions, but I don't remember ever exchanging a word with the man before."

"Which is exactly why you are the perfect candidate for what I have in mind," Harry nodded approvingly and leaned in expectantly. "Well, what do you know _of_ him, then?"

"Like I said, not much. I mean, he's just another auror captain in the force, right? I don't exactly run statistics on them," Pederson shrugged. At Harry's level gaze, he huffed and rolled his eyes. "Alright, what do you want me to say, Mr. Wilton? He's one of the department's brightest stars, some say already a shoe in for the next head of Magical Law Enforcement. The few times I've seen him, he seemed a bit standoffish - probably worrying about that elusive case of his - but I guess he must be competent enough, given his spotless record."

Harry was having problems believing that Pederson honestly had no clue what was the big case Kingsley has been working on. _But like the little opportunist said, he's only running statistics on people he could potentially use or benefit from._ Harry snorted mentally. _Little does he know that Kingsley is just about to enter that category. _

"Elusive case?" Harry asked aloud, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"Yes, there are talks about Mr. Shacklebolt taking way too long to close some case he's been working on for years, but I always found such talks about superior officers disrespectful and..." Pederson suddenly paused, frowning in thought, until his face lit up with realization. "Of course, now I remember! Sirius Black! Captain Shacklebolt is in charge of recapturing Sirius Black and bringing him to justice. That's why you were so interested in the history of the Black family. Am I right, Mr. Wilton?"

Harry clapped and nodded approvingly, hoping that giving a little ego-boost would fortify Wilton's position of calm authority, instead of making him look like a sleazy suck-up. "Excellent deduction, Gudmund. I'm pleased to see you figured it out on your own." _It only took you half an hour of dancing around the subject, you empty-headed baboon_, he added mentally.

Being unable to hear Harry's internal anger management therapy, Pederson blushed and bowed his head in mock-modesty. "Thank you mister Wilton." He then plunged forward. "But what I still don't understand sir, is how any of this is relevant to the subject of our discussion, which is, according to you, securing my future inside the department. After all, the Minister's personal bodyguard unit is completely out of captain Shacklebolt's jurisdiction. The same thing can be said about the Staff Selection and Revaluation Office, which is not even a part of our department. The bottom line is, sir, there is really nothing that captain Shacklebolt could potentially do to help me out with my... problem."

"That is where you're wrong, my friend," Harry smirked mysteriously. "You see, the thing is Gudmund, Mr. Shacklebolt is, shall we say, unfortunate enough to have in his possession something that I'm sure you'd like to get your hands on. Something that could very well save your failing career and even give it a big push forward."

Pederson waited with baited breath, but Harry just stared back at him, a small, almost mocking smile playing on his lips. After few tension filled seconds, Pederson's patience finally ran its course. "Well? What is it?" he snapped impatiently, while leaning over the table.

"His job," Harry said simply.

"Job?" asked a startled Pederson, his eyes gaining a calculating glint._ He is probably comparing prestige and advancement opportunities with his current position_, mused Harry.

"Exactly. Auror captain salary and regalia, plus a team of aurors under your own command," supplied Harry, making sure to point out symbols of authority that come with the position, like a brand new badge to show off and his own underlings to push around.

"Captain," muttered Pederson, his eyes finally glossing over. Harry amusedly watched as the other man daydreamed about having so much authority, before snapping out of it. "Well, I must admit that sounds nice, but I really don't see how I could possibly apply for his position from where I am right now. We are in completely different sections of the department, after all," he said carefully, slowly bringing himself down to earth.

"You are absolutely right, Gudmund. You can't," said Harry simply. "That's why you must leave your current job behind and take a new, temporary position much closer to your target."

Pederson gave him a suspicious but curious look. "And what position might that be?"

"High Inquisitor of the Sirius Black case."

Pederson blinked once, then again. Then, he burst out into a bout of slightly forced laughter. "That... heh... That was a good one, Mr. Wilton... But seriously now, what job is this?"

"I'm being perfectly serious, Gudmund," deadpanned Harry.

"Err... mister Wilton, just to get this straight. You want me to... quit my job - my highly paid and well-respected job - and apply for a position of... _High Inquisitor_?"

"Precisely," nodded Harry with the straightest face manageable.

Pederson stared at him blankly for another second and then leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms defiantly and said with an air of finality, "Absolutely not."

Harry finally let go a smirk, seemingly unfazed by the other man's reaction. He raised an inquiring eyebrow and asked sweetly, "And pray tell why not?" Of course, Harry had already read everything he could find on this subject and was well aware why Pederson was so reluctant to even consider his suggestion.

The High Inquisitor title is a tool that allows the Minister of Magic easier access and control of various aspects of society. When in doubt about a certain department or institution, the Minister could appoint a confident of his own choice as a sort of a temporary overseer. The Inquisitor would be given enough authority to execute the observation and would be expected to submit a report with findings after their mandate was over. Of course, this authority is controlled by precise regulations, specifying how long an inquisition may take and what rights and tools are to be given. Harry was well aware that Fudge's little pissing contents with Dumbledore had been a perversion of this law, and not its natural order. It will be a long time before another Inquisitor is given the kind of power Umbridge once held.

Furthermore, the High Inquisitor's job is completely outside the regular Ministry hierarchy. Inquisitors are appointed by the Minister in person, paid from the Minister's special expenses budget and completely dismissed after their job is done. In other words, it is a job made for the Minister's flunkies and undersecretaries, who have nothing better to do with their time other than wipe his arse whenever the need arises. No department would give an auror or any other permanent employee a few months off, so they could play a private eye for the Minister.

Thus, Pederson was well aware that taking this job would effectively kill his career in Fudge's personal bodyguard unit. And judging by his sputtering and reddening, he was more than eager to express his opinion.

"Why not? Why not!? Let me counter that with why the hell would I? How in Merlin's name would accepting an interim, bureaucratic position help me with my auror career?" Pederson visibly tried to calm himself down. "I'm sorry, Mr. Wilton, but I really don't see your point here. I thought you were offering me an auror captain job, not this... this..." He took a deep breath, trying to steer himself back to the politically correct terminology. "Well, I'm sure High Inquisitor is a very... _honourable_ and... socially useful function, but it is not quite the direction I expect my career to take, nor the duty I am trained to perform."

"Gudmund, Gudmund..." Harry shook his head disappointedly, like one would at a puppy that has just soiled himself on an exquisite Persian rug. "I told you that everything is already taken care of and preplanned to the smallest of details. And you still doubt me?"

Pederson tried to say something, but Harry stopped him with a raised hand. "Hear me out, will you? Now, while your misgivings are generally speaking... understandable, you once again fail to grasp the bigger picture and see the problem from all the angles." He stopped Pederson's protest with another hand motion. "Nothing to worry about, sonny, that's why I'm here."

Gudmund seemed a bit peeved, but still clamped his mouth shut. _Good boy_, Harry mentally smirked and continued his explanation.

"You see, what you failed to take in consideration are certain, one could say, less known laws, that are very significant for this case in particular. The most important being the article 7D, section 2 of 'the Statue of Internal Security'."

Pederson furrowed his brow in thought, while reciting various memorized law book passages under his breath, looking for the right one. Harry interrupted him, deciding not to let the little bastard flaunt his knowledge too much. "In short, the article 7D stipulates that no new Ministry employee may be given the position with access to Level 7 restricted files, if there is already an employee with the access to the aforementioned files available, willing to take over said position and capable of performing the tasks required by it." Pederson parroted the last few words under his breath, nodding like a brownnoser student would to his teacher. Harry resisted the urge to smack him. "Let me also remind you that Sirius Black's case is classified with the 7th level of security, placing it under the influence of this law. That should be enough information to clue you in to what I have in mind," finished Harry, knowing very well that it wouldn't be enough, but still looking forward to rubbing it in.

Seeing Pederson's confused expression, Harry sighed and started speaking in slow, well-chosen words, as if explaining something to an idiot. "Now, as you should know by now, every High Inquisitor is by law given the full access to any documentation pertinent to the target of theirs investigation; which in your case means full access to the Level 7 confidential Sirius Black's criminal case. Thus, once you, as a High Inquisitor, manage to get Kingsley demoted or suspended, there will remain a question of choosing his replacement. Here is where you'll step forward and _remind_ Madame Bones and her colleagues of stipulations specified by the article 7D we have just discussed. Seeing how you will, at that point, be included into the select circle of people with access to Sirius Black's file and have the necessary education to perform Kingsley's job, all the prerequisites of the article 7D will be fulfilled and M.L.E. heads will have no other option but to promote you into the rank of auror captain and assign you to the Sirius Black case."

As Harry was finishing his explanation, realization was slowly dawning on Pederson's face.

"But... Does that mean... Wow!" he stuttered, a disbelieving smile shining from his face. But then, he started going through the specific of the plan, and his face slowly clouded over, reverting to a worried but thoughtful expression.

"It's only that... there are still many problems with that plan." At Harry's raised eyebrow, he quickly went on. "For instance... How would you... _we_ convince the Minister to launch the investigation... and appoint _me_ of all people for the inquisitor? And what was that about getting Mr. Shacklebolt demoted? Like I said, he is one of the highest ranked and most respected aurors in the corps, the prime candidate for the next department head. I bet even his record is spotless, recommendation after commendation after promotion." He sounded slightly panicky now. "If... if I fail to get him... demoted, I'll lose not only my job, but any chance of working for the Ministry ever again. The whole Department will pull its influence against me..." Pederson's nervous rambling was stopped by Harry's sharp tone.

"Gudmund! Relax. As I said numerous times already, everything is already taken care of. Convincing the Minister to give you the job is the easy part. Neither he nor you have anything to lose by it. As for Kingsley..." Harry's lips spread into a devilish grin. "Well, that's what this baby is for." He once again pushed the envelope forward, spinning it tauntingly on top of the table.

"So what is it already?" asked Pederson, his voice laced with impatience.

"This, my dear Gudmund, is all the evidence you'll ever need to ruin Shacklebolt's reputation and get him demoted from his position." Harry took a sip of his beer, prolonging Pederson's plight. He savoured the drink for a few moments, making pleased noises with his mouth. Then after few seconds of this, his head snapped up, giving Pederson a look as if he had forgotten he was there. "You wanna take a peek?"

Pederson nodded, eagerness visible on his face.

"Very well then," Harry said as he tauntingly slowly opened the envelope and retrieved a bunch of wizarding photographs from it. "Now, I should first inform you that Kingsley's team is currently on an official mission somewhere in the northern Australia. How was it that he describes it in his daily reports... _'relentlessly and persistently combing the rainforests in search for Sirius Black'_. Correct?"

Pederson nodded carefully, not having any reason to doubt Wilton's information.

"Wrong! Oh, he _is_ in northern Australia, no question there, but apparently nowhere near those damp, suffocating rainforests. No sir, our dear mister Shacklebolt seems to prefer, shall we say, less daunting surroundings," Harry sneered, his words dripping with sarcasm. "Like for instance, crystal white sand and crisp sea air of beautiful Cairn beaches" Harry said in mocking voice, throwing on the table the first picture from the stack.

Pederson's jaw hung open as he ogled the very familiar black form of one Kingsley Shacklebolt, lying beneath a parasol on some exotic beach, reading what appeared to be a week old copy of Cairns Herald daily newspapers.

Looking at the picture from his side, Harry had to suppress a smile at the memory of that hectic day in Australia. After an exciting and stressful morning, when he eluded Dumbledore's puppets and bought himself some more chaser-free time, the second part of the daytrip was spent in a much brighter mood. After all, who wouldn't like lazing around on sand beaches, learning to swim in the clear blue sea and touring local tourist attractions? In retrospect, it was one of the best days of Harry's summer, even if he had to spend most of the time looking like a dark-skinned British auror captain and every once in a while asking some random muggle tourist to take a picture of him.

Harry went on producing photo after photo of discriminating evidence against Kingsley and placing them on the table, as if in a game of Solitaire. Kingsley swimming in the ocean; Kingsley having a relaxing massage on a beach; Kingsley fishing from a tourist yacht; Kingsley touring the Great Reef; Kingsley in a pub, a slutty-looking girl under each arm and a drunken expression on his face.

For a moment there, Harry paused and smiled fondly at the last one, remembering the good time he had with Mandy and Clarissa. _Who would have thought that tall and muscular black guys get so much action_, he mused. _Ah well, it's a shame I had to refuse their offer to give me a guided tour of Mandy's flat. Making too much of a ruckus in a fake body wouldn't be a smart move, especially with the original design snooping around the area, _Harry concluded, forcing himself to continue the show. He was lacing each picture with venomous, sarcastic comments, targeted at further riling up the idiot against poor unsuspecting Kingsley. And truly, at the end of Harry's presentation, the expression on Pederson's face was a strange combination of anger, disappointment and glee.

"Who would have thought that leadership of the corps is blighted with such a disgrace of an auror," he sneered, shaking his head sadly. "And to think that this... _person_ is held in such a high esteem amongst our colleagues in the department." Pederson took a breath, trying to regain his composure and continued in much more careful and collected tone. "Still... even with all this evidence... I must say it won't be easy to bring captain Shacklebolt down. After all, as I suspect we were both taught during the training, wizarding photographs can be faked using a number of techniques. Also, don't forget Mr. Wilton that captain Shacklebolt has a wide network of friends and supporters inside the department. They are bound to raise a ruckus about their poor hero being set up."

Harry was expecting something like that. Pederson may be an idiot, but he seemed to be extra careful with anything that could potentially jeopardize his personal career and wellbeing. Harry's experience with Fudge had already taught him that little fact of life about people such as those two. Some call them 'survivors', but Harry's mind had already supplied him with a number of alternative and rather more _'colourful'_ terms.

"Of course Gudmund, you are right," Harry nodded approvingly. "But while it is true that wizarding photographs can easily be altered or bewitched, there are other recording techniques that are not so susceptible to outside manipulations," Harry said knowingly, retrieving another object from his envelope.

"Is that... err..." Pederson squinted, trying to recall the correct term for the muggle artefact.

"Yes, it's a video tape," explained Harry. "You remember 'Security systems' lesson in the 'Muggle policing methods' class?"

"Ahh right. Never was my favourite subject," muttered Pederson and furrowed his brow in thought. "I think I remember a chart called 'the three elements of muggle security systems' - muggle camera, this... tape thing and... a dancer?"

"Player," nodded Harry. "Actually, we are sitting beneath one right now." Pederson gawked above Harry's head and truly, there was a video player and TV combo hanging over his head. There was a game currently on TV, but no one was watching it, thanks to notice-me-not charms Harry had erected before the meeting. He had carefully selected a seat near one of the televisions in the bar, well aware that he would need to properly present his 'evidence'.

"Now, as I'm sure you'll remember sooner or later, there is no certain and untraceable magical way of forging a video recording. Even if you find a way to alter multitude of frames on the tape, any magic cast at the medium is bound to interfere with the magic-obscuration layers on it, leaving the undeniable proof of outside interference."

Gudmund's confusion at those words wasn't very surprising to Harry. After all, few wizards were aware of the lengths the International Confederation of Wizards' Secrecy Department had to go to insure the magical world's secrecy throughout the 20th century. Their job was rather easy at first - find a few squibs, equip them with an ample supply of newly developed obscuration potion and send them to infiltrate the world's few photo appliance workshops. Their job was to make sure that each produced photographic plate is immersed in said potion, which job was to ensure that any parts on photographs showing the existence magic stay blurred to the muggles, along with the release of several different look-somewhere-else charms upon the curious photographer. But in the span of a single century, those shy pioneer workshops have expanded beyond the easy-going wizards' wildest expectations, growing into powerful international conglomerates, with dozens of factories all over the world. New inventions and improvements followed this expansion; Kodak's flexible film, plastic film, motion pictures rolls, Polaroid, magnetic storage devices, beta and video tapes... The wizarding world was barely managing to keep track with the progress of muggle science. Harry remembered reading a small article in the Prophet last year, about difficulties that the secrecy department was having with figuring out how to deal with new digital imaging technologies. The reporter had presented this news as an inconsequential piece of trivia, but Harry and all the muggleborn students knew very well how serious the situation was. Eventually, the wizarding world was bound to slip and reveal its presence. Harry only hoped he wouldn't be anywhere near the wizarding government once that happened.

Snapping himself from his reverie, Harry smiled slightly at Pederson's confused expression. "In short Gudmund, messing around with these thingies is extremely difficult. Be sure to read up on it later on and refresh your memory," he advised Gudmund, who nodded eagerly, blushing slightly at his ignorance and nodded.

"So... want to take a peak?" asked Harry slyly.

At Pederson's curious nod, Harry flicked his wand and the tape soared upwards, smoothly sliding inside the player's tray. Harry flicked his wand two more times, changing the TV channel to 'A/V' and activating the 'play' button on the player. He hadn't spent much time this summer learning simple charms like these, but prior to this meeting, he made damn sure to master this particular family of Muggleborn-friendly spells, that Anarchia had generously provided. Standing up and fiddling with the controls manually would simply ruin too much of an image he was trying to create.

The TV came back to life, showing a black and white image of a quiet terrace in the middle of a rainforest. Seven people were sitting at the table, engaged in a seemingly light-hearted conversation. Harry flicked his wand, increasing the volume. The privacy bubble around the two men was suddenly filled with the boisterous voice of a young, burley man from the screen, who was obviously in the middle of telling a joke.

_"...so, Apprentice Troy is walking down the Diagon Alley one day and he is suddenly stopped by a small creature, dressed completely in red. 'Greetings, wizard', says the creature. 'I am little red leprechaun and I wish to fill your pockets with gold.'..." _

"Who is that man?" whispered Pederson, eyes glued on the TV.

"Phillip McLaggen, one of Kingsley's lackeys," explained Harry. "The glum guy besides him is Terrence Higgs and across the table from them is Nymphadora Tonks. All junior aurors, yet all members of a supposedly elite 'Sirius Black retrieval team'. Suspicious yet?" Harry whispered conspiratorially, a sly smirk playing on his lips.

"Is that..."

"Shh! Here comes the punch line," Harry interrupted Pederson's question.

_"...'So let me guess, you are little green leprechaun and you also wish to fill my pockets with gold?', Troy asked irritably. 'No', answered the green dwarf. 'I'm Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, but I'd very much like to take your gold.'" _

As expected, the assuming laughter from the TV did nothing to improve the irritated blush on Pederson's face. "That was highly inappropriate, even for a junior auror," he snapped at the TV, as if virtual McLaggen could hear him. "This... this whole meeting is inappropriate. These officers are supposed to be combing the forest, and not... not having drinks with... with..." Pederson narrowed his eyes, peering at a bulky figure sitting at the head of the table. "Is that _the_ Mad Eye Moody sitting there?" he asked confusedly. "I thought he retired years ago. I heard he is practically insane with paranoia these days. What is he doing with the team in Australia?"

Harry smirked at the idiot and said knowingly. "That's nothing Gudmund. Look more closely at the man in the shadows."

Pederson squinted again at the monochrome recording and almost jumped back in surprise. "Sweet Merlin! That's Severus Snape!" Seeing Harry's smirk and slight nod, he started stuttering. "But... but isn't he still the potions teacher at Hogwarts?"

"That is quite correct, Gudmund," nodded Harry. "However, I'd be more concerned with the fact that a confirmed Death Eater, like our dear professor here, has a say in the search operation after one of his own lieutenants."

"Merlin, you're right," deadpanned Pederson. "I remember the briefings now. He was awarded amnesty for testifying against several of his dark wizard friends. Never denied he was You-Know-Who's loyalist himself, though" He shook his head totally bewildered. "How could a shady character like him be anywhere near that many aurors, and yet act so... at ease?"

"Apparently, that is quite a common occurrence when our dear Mr. Shacklebolt is involved. Look more closely at the person sitting besides the girl."

Pederson peered at the screen and shook his head slowly. "I'm quite certain I've seen that man before, but for the life of me, I can't figure out where."

"Ah, Mr. Sturgis Podmore, a long-time staff member of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, currently unemployed." Harry made a small dramatic pause. "On the 31st of August last year, he was arrested and charged with trespassing and attempted robbery at the Ministry of Magic. He was later convicted on both counts and sentenced to six months in Azkaban. He only got out half a year ago."

Pederson gasped slightly. "Yes, I remember it now. He tried to break in into the Department of Mysteries, didn't he?" he said eagerly and then shook his head in confusion. "Three junior aurors, a half crazy retired auror, a suspected death eater and now this... ex-convict? What in the world is he doing anywhere near Shacklebolt?"

"I don't know Gudmund," shrugged Harry. "But the answer to that question might be related to the fact that Podmore was sentenced to mere 6 months, while he could have easily landed himself with charges for high treason and spent the rest of his life in Azkaban."

Harry smirked at Pederson gobsmacked expression. Of course, it was Dumbledore's connections that had ensured Sturgis' lenient sentence, but Pederson didn't need to know that little detail. Besides, everything that Harry said was pure truth. It wasn't his fault if Pederson's dirty little mind made something out of it, like say... a conspiracy involving Kingsley Shacklebolt and the Dark Lord.

"But... are you saying... does that mean"

"Hey look, it's Shacklebolt's turn," Harry pointed at the screen, interrupting Pederson's theorizing. He was more than content to let him make whatever fantastic theory he wanted in his own time. _Besides_, he mused, smirking slightly at the scene on the TV, _this part might as well seal this deal_.

_"Come on Kingsley, we all took a shot at him. Screw the regulations,"_ cheered black and white Tonks from the screen.

_"It's easy for you to say, Tonks. You people are not targets of his paranoid 'house peace' policies,"_ replied Kingsley defensively.

_"What's the big deal, sir? It's not like one little joke against superiors is the same as starting a mutiny, no matter what that stumbling idiot says,"_ piped in McLaggen.

_"Are you afraid, sir?" _asked Higgs slyly, like a man with years of experience of dealing with Gryffindors. _"I thought you black people were supposed to have big..." _

_"Alright, alright, I'll do it,"_ snapped an irritated Kingsley, buckling under pressure, before shifting in his seat into a more comfortable position and starting the joke. _"So, in the middle of the night, Fudge is awaken by the dementor queen herself. The queen says to him 'Cornelius, I come here in the name of my children, baring a proposal for thou. We offer thee what thou have always wanted - complete and unlimited power over whole of Britania and all its mortal dwellers. But beware - in return, we demand the souls of your wife, parents, children, relatives, friends, allies and all the mortals who had ever voted for thou. What say thee?' Fudge furrows his brow in thought, considering the proposal. Finally, he asks suspiciously, 'Alright, so where's the catch?'" _

Pederson predictably bristled and huffed at the laughter coming from the TV, but as his brain kicked in, a scheming smile started spreading across his face. Harry watched his gleeful expression with smug satisfaction. _Hook, bait and sinker_, he celebrated mentally, knowing very well that Pederson realized the potential trouble Kingsley could get into, if this tape ever got into, say... Fudge's podgy little hands.

Harry once again congratulated himself at his foresight when he decided to check security tapes before leaving the Barron Falls Skyrail station, back in Australia. As luck would have it, one of the cameras was just above the Order members' table and yet low enough to end up inside their spherical privacy bubble. It was then a simple matter of breaking into the security room and replacing the appropriate tape with one of the blanks from the storage. It's not like many wizards knew the difference anyway - they were mostly relying on concealing charms embedded on the tapes themselves to keep anything magical away from muggles.

Of course, when he'd first watched the tape, Harry was mightily disappointed that, instead of some juicy piece of intelligence about the Order, he had gotten nothing but a bunch of useless jokes. Still, the tape stayed safe inside Harry's storeroom, patiently waiting for its new owner to grasp its true value. And Harry did, just when he was coming to realize his faked photographs might not be enough to sway Pederson towards accepting his proposal.

Thinking about it now, Harry realized it might be exactly this seemingly useless tape that would tip the balance of the negotiations to his favour. After all, how could Pederson miss a chance at getting his hands on such a juicy piece of leverage against Kingsley?

_"Well, I guess it's my turn now,"_ Sturgis' weary voice could be heard from the screen, but Harry quickly flicked his wand, muting the sound. _Now is the time to close the deal_, he decided as he redirected his full attention back to Pederson.

"I see you realize the importance of this part."

Pederson nodded, for some reason looking very pleased with himself. "I have to tell you, Mr. Wilton, your plan seems truly perfect. Simply by passing around this recording, Shacklebolt's influence in the department would be severely shaken. With a few more careful moves and allies in the right places, it wouldn't be impossible to have him even completely ousted from the corps" His eyes then narrowed, forming a suspicious look. "Now, the question that remains is - what do you get out of this? No offence meant Mr. Wilton, but I somehow doubt that you would have gone through all this trouble, out of the goodness of your heart."

Harry smirked approvingly at Pederson, never breaking the eye contact. "5,000 galleons." He raised a hand, stopping the oncoming protest. "No need to feign outrage and haggle with me, Gudmund. The price is non-negotiable. Besides, we both know that you'll easily compensate the financial loss when your new captain-grade pay-cheques start coming in." He gave Pederson just enough time to regain his baring, before interrupting him again. "And before you say anything, I know you've saved enough to cover the cost. Goblins aren't exactly the most moral and close-mouthed sort." Pederson snapped his mouth shut. He then struggled for a few more seconds, before finally giving his grudging acceptance.

Satisfied with having won the first round, Harry went on. "Of course Gudmund, gold is only a part of the payment. If I wanted mere money, I could have simply blackmailed Kingsley with what I have now." At Pederson's sharp inquiring look, Harry went on slyly. "Once I make you into an auror captain, I might need a... favour now and then. Nothing major, I assure you, just a little push here, some papers disappearing there, aurors mysteriously getting recalled from a routine raid... you know how it works," Harry finished shamelessly. Pederson tried to feign outrage, but a flash of his sharp, calculating look informed Harry that yes, the little shit knew very well how the real world works. Deciding not to push his luck further tonight, Harry mellowed the price. "Of course, we can flatten out these small details further once we celebrate your promotion to the auror captaincy." Pederson was way too quick to agree, tipping Harry off that he had no intention of honouring this deal once he got his prize.

Lazily flicking his wand and summoning the tape and pictures back to his end of the table, Harry started rearranging them and packing them back into the envelope, giving Pederson some time to think about all that was said. Once done, he leaned forward, steepling his fingers on the table and giving Pederson a penetrating look. "So, you've seen my evidence and heard my offer. The decision is now up to you. Are you in?" he asked bluntly.

Pederson seemed to be struggling with himself, finally realizing that the presentation was over and he would have to make a decision. "Well... I don't know. It is a great plan and all, Mr. Wilton, but... but... Do I have to quit my job? What if I fail to defeat Shacklebolt? There could be some other way..."

"Oh do shut up, Gudmund," snapped Harry, rousing Pederson from his stuttering. "You know very well that your job is as good as lost. All the other guards envy you for rising through the ranks so fast." _Or more likely, bribing and arse-kissing your way to the position they've had to work hard for_, he added mentally, but was well aware that the little sycophant wouldn't appreciate his candour very much. "Hell, they even managed to convince Minister Fudge himself that you are not worthy of your position. I'm telling you what we both know; One way or the other, by the end of this year you'll be the minister's bodyguard _no... more..._" Harry accented his point by knocking on the table, making Pederson wince pathetically with each strike, as though hearing his own judgment.

"The only question that remains Gudmund, is what will you do about it? Will you keep living in your little fantasy shell for a few more months and then end up working night shifts in the emergency floo centre? Or will you grab this unique opportunity I'm offering and rise above those bastards that are trying to keep you down? Because, make no mistake Gudmund, you're not the only one I could make this offer to. Many would kill for a chance like this. The bottom line is - you need me a lot more than I need you." Harry finished his speech angrily, satisfied that he finally could vent some frustration at the little bastard. "So, do we have a deal, or do I make some other bloke into a captain? You have 10 seconds to decide." Harry said with finality, as he closed the envelope and put it back in his inner pocket, looking ready to leave at a moment's notice.

"Alright, alright, I accept, Mr. Wilton, I accept," yelped Pederson desperately. _Four seconds,_ thought Harry, finally easing back in his chair and showing a smirk on his face.

"So we have a deal?" he extended his hand.

"Yes we have a deal," Pederson sighed and shook Wilton's offered hand, managing a weak smirk himself.

"Excellent!" Harry clapped his hands in delight, smiling at Pederson like a cat would at a mouse. _I got him!_ he mentally cheered. _I actually convinced the idiot to accept the plan! This couldn't have gone better! _

Harry allowed himself a brief moment of mental celebration. Several months ago, not even in his wildest dreams was he be able to manipulate people like that. But improved self-confidence, careful planning and the radical mental revamp experienced after learning of the Prophecy did wonders for his psyche. The simple crushing down of his useless moralistic ideals and throwing away of all the pretences he'd been keeping up was a big step forward... or backwards in this case. The same way he'd crafted himself into a perfect Gryffindor hero back when he was trying to distance himself from anything related to his life with the Dursleys, he was now slowly 'rewiring' himself back into what he was supposed to be all along – a sly and crafty kid, capable of talking his way out of trouble, be it his relatives trying to beat magic out of him or Death Eaters trying to kill him. He was simply no longer afraid of what the others would think about his actions, and whether his behaviour was compatible with the hero status he had unwillingly been burdened with. Learning of this sword of Damocles hanging over his head had simply pushed all his other concerns into categories little better than 'trivial'. After all, better to be alive and unpopular, then dead hero of the Wizarding World.

"We start tomorrow," Harry announced, rubbing his hands together. Now that he had Pederson's agreement, he wasn't about to give the fool enough time to develop cold feet and call the whole thing off. His smile remained unaltered throughout the other man's ensued sputtering.

"But... but Mr. Wilton..."

"No buts, Gudmund, You already have an appointment with Minister Fudge for 11 o'clock tomorrow morning. You wouldn't want to stand up the Minister of Magic, now would you?" Harry said cheerfully, having already preplanned the next morning ages ago. No way in Hell would he let that little shit get away now, after he had already agreed with the plan.

"Well, no, of course not. But..."

"Excellent!" Harry interrupted him dismissively, before speaking on in a dead serious tone of voice. "Listen Gudmund and listen well. This is not a game anymore. If you wish this scheme to succeed, you will follow my instructions to the letter - no last minute changes, no improvisations and no hesitation. My plan is detailed and well thought-out, but that makes it difficult to change and adapt to any potential screw-ups you might make. I will not let you ruin so much planning by being a smartarse. Do I make myself clear?" Harry finished in deadly whisper, staring the other man down.

Pederson fought down the urge to gulp and tried not to look down like a chastised schoolboy. "Yes... Yes I understand."

"Good." Harry snapped and then continued in military-briefing manner of speech. "You will arrive at the meeting with the Minister at 11,00 sharp. You will inform Minister Fudge that you have as of yet unconfirmed suspicions of Shacklebolt's transgressions regarding Sirius Black's case. You will _hint_ - and I do mean that in the vaguest way possible - that Shacklebolt _might_ have something to do with Dumbledore's secret army, targeted at usurping the Ministry's authority" Harry raised his hand. "Don't interrupt me, Gudmund. You will inform the Minister that you will need the authority to browse through his files in order to confirm your suspicions. You will then _kindly request_ of the Minister to launch an Inquisition, in order to re-examine the handling of Sirius Black's case and Shacklebolt's general conduct in the last several years. Be mindful to do this subtly - do _not_ try to push the Minister into doing anything. Finally, you will _generously_ offer yourself to take the job of the Inquisitor, seeing how you have already investigated this matter in your own free time, thus being the best-suited candidate for the job. After receiving the Minister's approval, you will resign from your old job and file in the paperwork to receive the credentials for your new position. Are there any questions?"

Pederson was beyond confused now. He was helplessly stuttering and fumbling, trying to remember all that was said. Harry took mercy on the fool and retrieved a few parchments from his pocket. "I have all this written down on these parchments, in case you need a reminder... or two." He pushed the papers over the table, straight into Pederson's clumsy hands. "Read them. Study them. And for Merlin's sake, _memorize_ them. I don't want to hear about you reading a script in the Minister's office tomorrow morning." While Pederson was going over the papers, Harry put on his wizarding hat and dropped some muggle money on the table, obviously getting ready to leave.

Seeing that the meeting was coming to its closure, Pederson finally broke through his bloc and burst out with questions. "Will this work? What if it doesn't? What if the Minister refuses to listen to me? What if..."

"Stop worrying Gudmund. You have nothing to lose at this point, so for Merlin's sake, just concentrate on doing your part and leave the planning to me. If you have any further questions, we'll discuss them tomorrow evening. 9 o'clock, this same table. Good night and good luck."

Harry took a few steps towards the exit, but then stopped by Pederson's seat, as if having an afterthought.

"Oh and bring the agreed sum of gold when we meet tomorrow night. If you succeed - as you hopefully will - we'll do the exchange then - photos and the tape for the galleons. If you fail..." Harry shrugged. "Then that would be the end of our partnership. We part our ways and no hard feelings on either side."

With that said, Harry stalked down towards the exit, completely ignoring Pederson's anxious mumbling. Harry opened the door and was about to exit the bar, when he suddenly whirled around. "Pederson!"

Gudmund's head snapped up at the sound of his surname. He paled at the sight of 'Wilton' staring him down from the doorstep, his cloak ominously billowing in the night breeze. He couldn't repress a shiver at seeing a stony expression on his new partner's face.

Harry kept his stare for another second, before speaking in the most dangerous voice he could muster. "You better not fail."

And with that, he was gone.

* * *

»»»  
**Author notes  
**«««

**EDIT: This chapter had been edited after the posting of chapter 8. Other than some miniscule changes in grammar and writing style, everything else stayed the same. **

This is the promised second part of the previous chapter. I simply split it off, because chapter 7 would have otherwise had 30K words strong. This part was delayed because of some communication problems I've had with my beta, so I apologize for that.

Nothing else to say here. Err... sorry that it sucked? This was written during my worst writer's blocks, so I guess it's normal that some parts might seem forced and disjointed. Oh, and notice that there's no mention of any other characters during this scene; it's because only a few hours have passed since the end of chapter 7, if that wasn't clear enough.

Good news is that the next chapter should finally close this filler arc (that was initially supposed to be just one chapter), and move us on to more interesting stuff, like Dumbledore's counter-move, the resolution of Rookwood drama and the Ministry heist or two.

I'd like to thank **Athenia** for editing this chapter, making it at least grammatically correct drivel, instead of just plain one.

My profile hasn't been altered much this time, but you should keep an eye on it nevertheless, seeing how I might post a new (multi-chaptered) story one of these days.

**o - Potter's Resistance in German **

As of now, there is a German version of Potter's Resistance being posted alongside the main English version (2 chapters at this point). The translation is being done by CGB (id: 3047071). For the link, please look inside my profile.

**o - Alfonsina Black **

**EDIT:** Several people have warned me about this, so here's an explanation. According to JKR's family tree, Sirius' mother was named Walburga. Also, in OOTP, it is hinted that she had died several years after her son's incarceration.

I decided to change this because  
1) I find it highly illogical for a number of reasons.  
2) It doesn't fit well with my ideas for the Black family (it's especially unfathomable why did Sirius remain the heir if his mother was alive and capable of picking a new one).

So, I've disregarded that one sentence in the canon where the old bat's time of death was vaguely hinted. As for her name... Well, in my disclaimer, I've mentioned that this story is based solely on HP books; not interviews, other books and such. Since the name 'Walburga' is mentioned only in the Black family tree Rowling had published separate from the books, I was in no way obliged to follow it. Besides, a different name serves as a nice reminder that her time of death is different from that in the canon.

**o - Sources and additional disclaimers **

The encyclopaedias I've used for reference are Britannica 2005 and Wikipedia (www-wikipedia-org).

I don't own any intellectual property mentioned above.


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